










Clas 

Book 


Lo 


CopigM N" 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. 




Vv* 


' « < 



■ ty * 


' > 




. t 




' a *' ' < • *4 . 

w, 1 

.. ^ / 


• ■’ • ) V' * ‘-.^■«*-a- 

^ ' vf- 

r ‘ y ’ ' ■' * ’ - ■ * • .♦ * ' ‘ ■ 


■;^r - • 

i\ ' * ^ « .^ ' • j'. 




I . 

>* - 

V#. 


r- :r ;,;. rasP' '/ r, ^ .‘^■ 

L ^ ^ -V" Z'^, «- • * • N 


1', 

\ . 


\ 


Cv. ■.' 




I ■• 


0 

k I 


i f 



L«t. 


•r^Tr- 


r ' 


■ » I ' 

« 

■ * . * 


V;'^-”' ■' •>.:;■<■ .''i 


V 

X 


.> 
> a 






\ • 


V.;. 

, - >:'• 


f. 

. « 




- ^i" -: 

» ‘4 ' . 


• M 


f/ 


• I 


. t 




• • 


■y'-rr^^'^ 




4 

yj 


i : 


*. K 


^ * 




‘ •;- 
« 

*. . 


'y 


» t 

.'•> 

; : 

<* 


.--/ 




. A' ’ ‘ 


j •> 


I ** 


‘ * 





< r- • 


» v' <A ^ -A***^! - 

, * . •' V/ 

^ ^ , 'at . ^ . . 




1 . 


' Va 


) . 
t 


_ r 


' • ..7 >V ■ i 


•/?' y.* 


. « /> 


i<- 


r' ♦ 


',.• 


.t 


>*. 


i 


■» 


M*. 

• » i 

< f 


"r 


V » 


'O. 


• • 
• s 




• « 




* r 1 ' 

• • 

I . _• ' 


■ s 


I •-..*•» 1 


. 1 , 

y . 


'r wn' 


/• . 


. *»*v 


• 1 . 

■ .^'’• 

. . . 

» / 'XV 

'' '' t-. ■^- 

. • • t' r . 

^.' v VX* 

• . ' •/ .' , 


• rf 


«?■ 


. I 


■ ' -/ >-• ' , 
. •' A. ' ' 

:. . . 

V. - '*■*.:• ' 

'v- . 

* ,« wT ’ •» « 






*' 


-f.. ^ 


A* 


*1 


V i^r** 


if' "a 

. ■ 




I 




k.> V 




’* V J ' 


■' -S'i 


yv 


u.y 


$ » 

X 


V A 


> I 

« 

' . * • . 


f{ ••- 


< r V 




I' 

X 


» * 


i 

* I 


I- 

* V4 


. ^ 




t* 

'•3 * 


•4r 

/ 


s > ■ V 


► ; o 


‘-V,* 


V 


• »> 






.. • • . .\ V 




. L 


-’ « * ■ ■ ■ VT* 


A’ *• 

f 







. vV^ 

: ; 


V 

V 


» « 


V 


■Si! 


• ^ .-. 

A, r * 


. i ^ ^ 

'■ ./■ -v - ; 

'•k ' ‘‘. 

?^v^ 

•. , j-v-' 

^ ^ . w ^ 


% •* • 




• • * • 


At* 


N ^ 


'■ * ^ ■ , 
J \ * ' ■ 'H 

7 ^ * ■ " J t.’ v'V 

-‘V ' -ai ^ . . .‘^ 


.-X -r • 

> \ ^ r'i 


• V^' ; ‘ ‘‘1 

‘A- 




rr 7 vV a- 


»• 

« 

* » • 


/ r 


/ • 


.' 


V 


• \ 


» I 


'* 


I ^ 


• 4 

« . * 


5 . 

• 1 • 


< « 


• .’1 4 


A « -, 


• — •»! 


• - , ■ '•*■.'<■ y 

'.'•A’*'' > 


• . -t • i il 


^ . 


4 


> . 


. » , - 




* . 


.4 '^y' 




J '.if 1 .' 

. I • • . A ; ; • , . 


I» *■' 


:i^ 


. . /r 


«'•. a 




^rf 


’ ♦.' 


A 1 


» 

k.* 


, V J 


75!»» 


' 'A.- 


V-* • 

- 

- »« 

. ^ 

" ^ •• 

. ■;?. , 

■•“•t ' 






■ ^/-.S • ‘ ■ ' i 

. w.-v • v>- 

• >iO 


*♦ 

• * 




V » «• 




i ^ • 

•v*’^ 


/. . 



Q. 

1 



• 



• * 

1 

^ ■; '■ . 

X •* 

t • 

— « 

1 s 

f *• '"i 


- 

? 'y 

^ - -S 

k ' • - 

• • ' ' * 

• 


A : 

f « « • 

M ’ 

• 


T J 

1 y'- 


a 

A 

1 



t 

. 

♦ ’ 


/ . ' 


\ ^ 



» 



I- • 


• . ,.'. >• • r '< • 


I • . •., «, - 



» — •V 



^ 1 


ar. 


I 


% - * • . ■ ’• 

^ . r‘ 






/ 




LOVE WITH HONOUR 



LOVE 

WITH HONOUR 

By CHARLES MARRIOTT 

Anthor of “ The Column ’’ 


JOHN LANE : THE BODLEY HEAD 
NEW YORK ^ LONDON . MCMIII 


COPYRIGHT, 1902 
BY JOHN LANE 





"thf library of 
CONGRESS, 

vr^. Ct'WeO RECEIVED' 


lUL. 16 1902 


ENTRY 



CLASS' C^XXa No. 



IK. 


< ( ( C « ( c c 

* C t i 

c C C < L f 

t. c ( c 
c < C < < I 



Set up and clectrotypcd by 
The Norwood Press 
Norwood, Mass,, U. S. A. 


To 


t 


M. y, H. 


t 



/ 




f 


Love with Honour 


Chapter I 

T he double-bedded room afflicted one as a multi- 
tude of counsellors. It was impossible to hit 
on a single object and say, ‘‘ Here he is ; this 
is the room of that man.” There was nothing 
incriminating, so to speak ; and no sooner had one started 
on a trail suggested by the easel and portfolio leaning in a 
corner, than one was brought up suddenly by the bookcase 
over the mantelpiece, where the number of works on 
Finance and Political Economy placed the poetry books at 
a singular disadvantage. There was a certain security in 
the picture at the head of either bed ; one held to that and, 
following the method of Goethe’s genuine scholar, warily 
developed the unknown. 

The picture over the larger bed was of the type known 
as “club portraits.” You get them, painted in solid oils, 
framed complete, for thirty shillings. It represented a 
middle-aged woman, her face indicating the subsidence of 
the chosen person into the German housewife. Over the 
other bed the glare of a May dawn, flashed from the oppo- 
site wall, added a fresh obscurity to the “ Spring ” of 
Botticelli. 

The man who lay extended under the benediction of the 
German Jewess illustrated in his attitude the principles 
of hygienic slumber. His pillow was low, he lay on his 
right side, lightly covered Upon the chair by his bedside 
were methodically disp >sed a pipe, tobacco, matches, a 
tumbler of water, and “The Wealth of N^dons.” The 


Love with Honour 

bed-rail supported a pair of trousers, neatly folded; and 
blinding slippers, a confession of race, were placed accu- 
rately heel and toe together beneath the chair. 

The other bed was confusion. Bare feet, nervously 
twitching, protruded from under the clothes which had 
worked up round the sleeper’s neck. His pipe lay on the 
floor in reckless nearness to a tumbled heap of garments. 
Their owner swung up suddenly and stretched out his arms. 
He was a dark-faced young man, with heavy brows and a 
discontented mouth. As he regarded the other bed with a 
smile of mingled affection and humour, one saw that his 
discontent was not radical, but the effect of circumstances. 
After a few minutes’ contemplation he leaned sideways and, 
reaching for a boot, hurled it with precision against the 
opposite wall. From the instant though stately resignation 
with which the other man sat up, one judged this a 
customary method of arousing him. Awake, the son of 
his pictured mother was confessed. He was a large young 
man, the image of solemn good-humour. His name was 
Hermann Fischer. 

“ Congratulate me,” said his companion, “ it is half-past 
four; I am a man.” 

The other looked at his watch before he spoke. 

“ I congratulate you,” he said ; “ but I am also afraid.” 
There was only a slight thickening of his consonants to 
betray his nationality. His companion, Mark Surtees, 
frowned impatiently. 

“ That is why you are bound, why we are all bound ; I 
for one am going to end it.” 

“ So you have decided ? ” said Hermann, thoughtfully. 
“ How about Rangeworthy ? ” 


Love with Honour 

“ Damn Rangeworthy. Besides, supposing I cared to 
stay, he doesn’t make it worth my while. He sounded me 
yesterday : ‘Well, Mister, I hope you’ll decide to give us- 
the pleasure of your company for a bit longer. Of course 
your indentures expire to-day j I’m not saying anything 
against that ; still, if you would care to stop on, as improver, 
I dare say I could make it worth your while. Say ten shil- 
lings a week and all found. You must remember that 
I’ve taught you everything ; you can take a good negative, 
retouch, and you’ve had opportunities in the way of finish- 
ing enlargements as you wouldn’t get anywhere else. With 
a little more practice you’ll be able to get a berth in a first- 
class London house.’ You know his way.” 

Hermann laughed. 

“ He’d be glad to give you more if you put the screw 
on.” 

Mark shook his head. 

“ Oh, it isn’t the money — I only mentioned that to 
prove that I can take a practical view of things. No j the 
fact is. I’m sick of the whole business.” 

“ I suppose if you’ve made up your mind nothing will 
hold you back ; when do you go ? ” 

“ In two hours. At seven o’clock I shall start from this 
house a free man. Just think of it ! East, west, north, 
south — I can turn from this door whichever way I please. 
I have done with houses; I have no cares, no ties, — 
nothing but what I carry with me.” 

“ What will you do for the bread and the butter ? ” 

“I can live — as I care to live — on what my father 
saved out of the wreck. Of course, until now, it’s been 
out of my hands, tied up, and the interest paid to Range- 

3 


Love with Honour 


worthy for my apprenticeship. Now Pm of age I can use 
it as I please. A friend of my father’s — old Pembridge, 
the lawyer — is my trustee. That reminds me, Pm not rid 
of convention yet ; I shall have to see Pembridge before I 
begin tramping.” 

“How much is it?” 

“The money? Thirteen hundred, I believe,” said Mark, 
carelessly. 

Hermann looked grave. 

“What investment?” 

“Incas.” 

“Three per cent to-day. That is thirty-nine pounds a 
year, three pounds five a month, fifteen shillings a week. 
Yes, one can live on fifteen shillings a week.” 

“ What a chap you are, Hermann ! ” cried Mark, in 
admiration. 

“That? — oh, that is my hobby. It is the blood,” and 
he tapped his nose. “But I am rather surprised that Pem- 
bridge put your money into a mine. Of course it’s a good 
spec. I myself would not mind buying a few Incas ; only 
I have the market in my veins, I feel the pulse. You 
don’t. If I were you, I should persuade Pembridge to sell 
Incas — they’ll go up a bit this week — and buy govern- 
ment stock. You understand, it is not what I should do 
myself, but for yoii it is safer.” 

Mark began to get restive. 

“I say, old chap, we won’t discuss that now; you can 
drop me a line when Incas get shaky. I want to talk about 
all the other things. ... I hope I’ve made you see that 
this is not a mere affectation ? ” 

“No,” said Hermann, after reflecting a moment, “Pm 


Love with Honour 

not afraid of that. I’ve thought it over carefully since you 
first told me of your plans; and Pve come to the conclu- 
sion that you are quite honest, even with yourself — at 
present.” 

“ But you think Fll outgrow my folly ? ” said Mark, 
fiercely. Hermann regarded him stolidly. 

“ I think it will be more sudden than that. You’ll meet 
a woman, or something else will happen, that will entirely 
alter your views of what you call the average futile existence 
of people in houses. Then you’ll want to get back, and 
it won’t be easy to do so.” 

‘‘That just illustrates what I say about the demoralis- 
ing effect of so-called civilisation,” said Mark, excitedly. 
“You’re afraid to make use of to-day because of what may 
happen to-morrow.” 

“ I won’t argue,” said the other, with a smile. “There’s 
a great deal of truth in what you say, and I believe it’s rather 
a good thing that you should run loose for a bit. It’s the 
usual thing in Germany, you know; afterward we marry 
and have geraniums on the window-sill — all but a few 
poets. However, I want you to promise me that if any- 
thing happens to make you realise that you are not the true 
vagabond — the Earth Man — you won’t allow your pride 
to stand in the way of your coming back.” 

“You seem to forget that I’m not a kid.” Hermann 
smiled grimly. “ I think I know my own mind ; but you 
may be quite sure that, if I do find out I’ve made a mistake, 
I shan’t be fool enough to stick to it. If that’s all you’re 
afraid of, you may make your mind easy. What annoys 
me is that you won’t understand that this is a personal con- 
viction ; you fancy it is the result of reading a few rotten 

5 


Love luith Honour 


books. I’ve outgrown all that ; I’m simply following an 
instinct. I want the open ; I want to live a man’s life, 
to feel my muscles, to know hunger and cold and hardship.” 

“You can feel quite enough, plenty, of cold and hunger 
and hardship in a tailor’s shop, in the East End of London,” 
said Hermann, sadly. 

“ Yes, yes ; but then the degradation of the thing spoils 
it. To be hungry and a slave is one thing; to be hungry 
with a man’s hunger is quite another — it’s an education.” 

“ Why not emigrate ? ” 

“ I’ve thought of that, but it isn’t the same thing. It 
means using up all your energy in hard labour and leaving 
none to be conscious of the life. I want to enjoy life, 
cleanly, but to the tips of my fingers.” 

“You’ll presently want somebody to come and play with 
you.” 

“ Lord, man, I want the whole world to come and play 
with me ! That’s just it. I’ll make the miserable creatures 
see how much better my way is ; I’ll make them lift up 
their noses from the blessed grindstone. Look here — I 
don’t think you quite understand my theory. It comes to 
this : I’m convinced our ideas of happiness are all wrong. 
We’ve got so dependent upon footling comforts — chairs, 
carpets, and so on — that we’re afraid to accept all the beauty 
and joy that nature holds out to us. The art of living,” 
he spoke with the assurance of one and twenty, “ consists 
in doing without. Have you ever considered how few 
things one really needs ? Bread, water, a place to lie down 
at night — ” 

“Tobacco,” insinuated Hermann, with a long-drawn 
exhalation. 


6 


Love with Honour 


‘‘Well, yes, perhaps tobacco. For the rest, what is there 
in God’s name that a man wants ? Books ? — there is only 
one book, whose pages run from the beggar to the king. 
Pictures? — there is the sea, the dawn. Music? — the 
woods, the birds, the running brooks. What fools we are, 
groping about in our sunless caves of brick and plaster ! ” 

Hermann nodded appreciatively. 

“ Go on,” he said ; “ I like you best when you talk so. 
It is true there are a few little details you haven’t men- 
tioned ; still, you are young. There is love.” 

“ Love ! ” echoed the other. “ What love more noble 
than that of man and woman under the open sky ? What 
finer gift to the girl of one’s heart than the whole world 
to share with you ? Think of the glorious women wait- 
ing out there — large-browed, strong-hearted, queens of 
women ! ” 

“ Queens,” said Hermann, addressing the ceiling through 
a film of tobacco smoke, “enormous! Queens — thirty- 
nine pounds a year. Enormous I ” 

“Yes, you may scofFj but those are the women who 
mate with freedom.” 

Hermann sighed. He made a gesture of resignation. 

“It is evident you must go,” he said, “you are the 
Prince himself. Your humble servant listens.” 

“ Now I think you’ve got a glimpse of my ideas,” said 
Mark, complacently, “ we’ll come to details. We’ve wasted 
enough time already. As soon as I’ve got my things to- 
gether I start for London on foot; it’s a nuisance to go 
there at all, but I must see Pembridge.” 

“ By the way,” said Hermann, awkwardly, “ if you don’t 
happen to have enough cash lying idle — ” 

7 


Love with Honour 


“ Couldn’t think of it, my dear chap. Fve twenty-five 
bob — plenty to last me until I see Pembridge. There are 
one or two things I want you to do. First, you must 
break it to Rangeworthy that Pm gone. You needn’t” — 
he hesitated — “ you needn’t tell him about my plans. 
He’s such an outsider he couldn’t possibly understand. 
Then I want you to help me get rid of a lot of rubbish. 
I shall only take what I can carry in a knapsack. We’ll 
do that now.” 

He leaped out of bed, and began vigorously to tumble a 
medley of things upon the floor. 

“We’ll eliminate what I don’t want,” he said. “Any- 
thing we both decide is absolutely necessary. I’ll take.” 

He continued to pile up his property in a heap in the 
middle of the floor. Hermann watched him with stolid 
amusement. 

“ Now we’ll make three heaps ; one to destroy, one to 
take, and — I say, Hermann, you don’t mind if I ask you 
to have a few odds and ends of books and things ? ” 

“ Not at all,” said Hermann, with unexpected readiness. 

“Well, here goes: item, one blue serge suit a little the 
worse for chloride of gold.” 

“ I should take that.” 

“ But I shall have the suit I’m wearing.” 

“You may get wet.” 

“ Oh, bother the wet ; let’s burn ’em.” 

“ No,” said Hermann. “ Let me look. There is good 
stuff in these pants,” he mused, turning them over with 
earnest attention. “ I’ll give you fifteen bob.” 

“ Oh, I say, if you’d really care — ” 

“ No ; I also have my little pride ; fifteen bob ? ” 

8 


Love with Honour 

»_ 

“ All right,” said Mark, turning to his heap. 

“ Let us understand,” said Hermann, with more interest 
than he had hitherto shown in the disposal of the property, 
“ that I may bid for what I choose ? One thing you shall 
give me — for luck.” 

Mark nodded. “Item, miscellaneous lot of books. 
Let’s sort ’em out : Shelley ? ” 

“ Burn.” 

“ Keats ? ” 

“ Burn.” 

Mark hesitated. “Yes— I believe you’re right. Of 
course,” he added, “ this isn’t a question of preference, 
but of convenience, that’s allowed.” He kissed the book, 
and flung it on the heap destined for burning. “‘Travels 
with a Donkey’ ? ” 

“ I’ll give you a bob.” 

“ All right. ‘ Lavengro ’ ” This last was named 
sheepishly. Hermann laughed j that decided Mark. “Want 
him ? ” he asked carelessly. 

“ No, thanks,” replied Hermann, with due solemnity. 
So “ Lavengro ” swelled the pile. 

“Shakespeare? Can’t burn him. He won’t take up 
much room.” So the nucleus of the necessary burden was 
the works of William Shakespeare in one volume. 

“ ‘ The Laughing Man ’ ? ” 

“ Burn.” 

“ ‘ Story of my Heart ’ ? ” 

“ One and six.” 

“ Done. ‘ Past and Present ’ ? ” 

Hermann screwed up his face and considered. “ I think 
you ought to take that,” he said. 

9 


Love with Honour 


Mark turned over the leaves. “ It isn’t essential,” he 
objected. “Yes — no;” and so “Past and Present” was 
doomed. “ ‘ Wilhelm Meister ’ ? ” 

“ Two bob the volume.” 

“ Let you have ’em for one and six — they’re only 
Bohn. ‘Leaves of Grass’? Yes; I’ll take that. Item, 
a dozen sketches in oils.” 

“ Burn,” said Hermann, relentlessly. “ They are not 
you. Some day you shall give me a painting. I’ll buy 
your easel and colours.” 

By the time the process of elimination was completed 
Mark’s property consisted of three shirts with turned-down 
collars, brush and comb, toothbrush, three pocket-handker- 
chiefs, Shakespeare, “ Leaves of Grass,” and three briar 
pipes. Mark shoved the things into his knapsack, and 
stood up with a sigh of relief. 

“ Let me see,” said Hermann, removing his trousers 
from round his neck. “ I owe you thirty-one and nine- 
pence.” He counted out the money, adding, “For luck 
you shall give me the ‘ Spring.’ ” 

Mark made a wry face, but recovered himself imme- 
diately. 

“ By all means,” he said, jumping on his bed and re- 
moving the picture. 

“How about the Staff?” asked Hermann, pointing with 
the stem of his pipe to a picture over the wash-stand. 
Mark took it down. He read on the back : — 

Mr. Lambert Rangeworthy, Art Photographer, Chelford. 

Enlargements on Opal a Specialite. 

Large Staff of Resident Artists. 


lO 


Love with Honour 


In the centre of the group Mr. Lambert Rangeworthy, in 
a butterfly necktie, leaned perilously on a camera. To the 
right Mark Surtees did something viciously to a picture on 
an easel. To the left Hermann Fischer held up a negative 
to the light, scowling through it with a ferocity alien to his 
features. In the foreground, and immediately under the 
paternal eye of Mr. Lambert Rangeworthy, “ Miss ” sim- 
pered over a retoucher’s desk. As a matter of cold fact 
“Miss” didn’t retouch; her artistic duties, over and above 
the management of prices, being confined to the blinding 
exercise of “ spotting.” 

This was the large staff of resident artists. Mark studied 
the picture with a satirical smile. Hermann watched him 
placidly and interpreted his feelings. 

“ After all,” he said, “ for three years this has been your 
home. We have lived together under one roof, and, on the 
whole, we’ve liked each other.” 

“ Of course,” said Mark, critically. “ ‘ Miss ’ is the in- 
evitable result of her upbringing, poor little fool. Who 
knows — under ampler conditions she might have been a 
woman. Hasn’t a bad phiz when one comes to look at 
her. I dare say she’ll make a passable mate for a man who 
doesn’t expect anything in that frizzy little head of hers. 
Ah, well — ” 

“ You’ll take it ? ” urged Hermann. 

“ Yes ; I’ll shove it in with the rest.” 

There was an awkward silence. Hermann was obviously 
suffering the pangs of sentiment, and Mark dreaded that he 
would begin to talk. He looked round the comfortless 
room, made still more neglected-looking by the unflinching 
May sunshine through the dusty window. He stared out at 


Love with Honour 


the budding poplars drowned in glory, the red roofs of the 
provincial town, the level sweep of the distant river. He 
threw open the window and leaned out. The houses be- 
neath him were misty red, passing through violet, and re- 
fined to silver in the eye of the sun. Here and there a 
skylight flashed answering fires. Sounds of awakening came 
up to him : timber falling, the dull ring of a hammer on 
iron, faint bells, and the sealike murmur of distant streets. 
The place had a sober charm, and he was breaking away 
from it after three years. 

Mark drew in his head and looked at his watch. 

“ A quarter to seven,” he said, without looking at Her- 
mann. “ I think ril be off before the others are about.” 

The two young men shook hands in silence. 

“ I’ll write every week,” said Mark, from the door. In 
a few seconds he let himself out into the quiet street, and 
turned his face toward London. 


12 


Chapter II 

M r. ANTHONY PEMBRIDGE represented 
to Mark the abstract Philistine *, and their 
relations, which began with Mark’s memory, 
were made interesting by this genial differ- 
ence. His conception of the old lawyer did not weaken 
Mark’s affection for him, nor blur the knowledge of what 
he owed to his care. Mr. Pembridge had been the friend 
of his father, a country clergyman who neglected his oppor- 
tunities in the pursuit of his hobbies, which were just too 
intellectual to be profitable, too secular to attract the atten- 
tion of those who might have advanced him. Every vicar 
in Severnshire had suffered from his incompetence as a 
curate ; while his reputation as an antiquarian and authority 
on folk-lore did not travel beyond his native county, where 
he was remembered as poor Mr. Surtees. His wife died 
when Mark was born; and when, seven years later, Mr. 
Surtees himself shambled out of life, he left to the care of 
his friend the lawyer a mass of papers, the boy, and the sum 
of thirteen hundred pounds. Mr. Pembridge sent Mark to 
school, and, after a desperate attempt to convince himself 
that the boy could be made a lawyer, apprenticed him to a 
photographer ; guided in his choice of a trade by Mark’s 
fondness for pictures and his own general desire for a gen- 
tlemanly occupation. 

Mr. Pembridge, in spite of the squalor of his offices, had 
a large and important practice. Indeed, if Mark had been 
able to penetrate the black tin boxes which contributed to the 
general depression of the place, he would have been aston- 

13 


Love with Honour 

ished that a man who held trusts of such magnitude could 
condescend to the safe-keeping of thirteen hundred pounds. 
Not that Anthony allowed him to be humbled ; it was his 
principle in business — and perhaps accounted for the quiet 
finish of his little place at Twickenham — to bring to the 
poorest client an attention which persuaded him that he 
was to the end of time the sole object of Mr. Pembridge’s 
solicitude. 

When Mark called upon him, Anthony — who still 
thought of him as poor Surtees’s little boy — deferred the 
consideration of business while he soothed his mind with 
conundrums. Next, he gave exhibitions of penmanship, 
an art in which he excelled. Having presented Mark with 
his own name written upside down in two colours — his 
show piece — he settled himself in his chair, and, folding 
his hands, invited the young man to explain the object of 
his visit. 

‘‘You will now,” he said, “have recovered from the 
fatigue of your journey. I congratulate you on the wis- 
dom of making it on foot. A most healthful exercise.” 
He had mistaken Mark’s motive for economy, mistaken it 
with such enthusiasm that Mark had not heart to disillusion 
him. 

“ I sincerely hope,” he continued, “ that you appreciate 
the good fortune of your position. It has been my lot to 
watch over the interests of a great many young men. 
Some had much, some had little ; and it is indeed a question 
which is the better gift of Providence. If, however, I were 
asked what sum I would desire to place at the disposal of 
a young man just beginning his career, I should unhesitat- 
ingly answer thirteen hundred pounds. Some persons, hav- 

14 


Love with Honour 


ing an affection for round numbers, would perhaps object. 
Why not one thousand or two thousand pounds ? No, my 
dear sir, there is a science in these things. The word, thou- 
sand, erroneously suggests wealth ; it is, moreover, a tempta- 
tion to ill-considered speculation. How often do we see an 
advertisement in the daily press such as the following, 
‘ Unexampled opportunity for a gentleman with a thousand 
pounds at his disposal.’ ” He laughed gaily and shook his 
forefinger. 

“ No, no, sir ; we know these gentry. I could tell you 
tales, Mark, of widows robbed of their little all ; of homes 
broken up for want of an honest man to warn them from 

these plausible schemers But thirteen hundred 

pounds ; forty pounds per annum. For-ty pounds. How 
I envy you ! ” 

He leaned back in his chair and looked at Mark with a 
smile in which benignity mingled with astonishment at the 
amazing good luck of the young man before him. 

“ I hope,” began Mark, nervously, “ that you will be- 
lieve how grateful I am to you for the generous way in 
which you have looked after my interests.” 

“ Business, my dear sir, business,” said Mr. Pembridge, 
with a wave of his hand. “ In addition to the regard I 
entertained for your poor father I claim a delight in the task 
for its own sake. It is a fashion to deny that we lawyers 
take any disinterested pleasure in the practice of our pro- 
fession. An error, I assure you, a cheap sneer. I protest 
that the joy derived from the skilful handling of your affairs 
is as pure as that given to the poet in his hour of creation. 
As I sit here I am picturing a future, the future of the for- 
tunate young gentleman who sits before me. He is twenty- 

15 


Love with Honour 

one, he has for-ty pounds per annum in his own right. 
He has just emerged from an apprenticeship to the most 
delightful of professions — a profession nearly allied to the 
Fine Arts. What will he do ? Nay, rather, what will he 
not do with such advantages ? First, he will obtain employ- 
ment — an apprentice no longer — at a generous salary in one 
of those fine establishments devoted to the production of 
portraits. Here — one must not forget the strides made in 
the development of the art — he will find ample scope for 
the exercise of his undoubted and carefully trained abilities. 
In addition to his salary, sufficient for his support in a 
reasonable degree of comfort, he will be receiving — there 
will be accumulating, I should say, as silently as the golden 
leaves in autumn — an annual interest, interest^ mind you, 
of forty pounds. In ten years he will have saved Four Hun- 
dred Pounds. Four hundred pounds in addition to his 
original capital. With four hundred pounds he may with- 
out rashness consider a business of his own. The rest is 
child’s play, sheer child’s play. By the time he is forty he 
will be a prosperous member of society, master of a flour- 
ishing establishment, patronised, no doubt, by nobility. I 
see the name, ‘ Mark Surtees, Photographer.’ Mark, my 
boy, you must — you shall — a glass of wine with me ? 
Spry ! ” 

He rose and called into the outer office. 

“ A bottle of the port. Spry, from the cabinet, and two 
glasses.” The presence of Spry, a chilblained youth in 
worsted mittens, prevented Mark from escaping from his 
false position. 

“ Mark, my boy, here’s to Mark Surtees, Photographer.” 
Mark swallowed his excellent wine with a mental reservation. 

i6 


Love with Honour 


‘^And now,” said Mr. Pembridge, resettling himself, 
“what are your immediate plans? Have you found an 
appointment — or perhaps you purpose to take a little holi- 
day to celebrate your coming of age ? An excellent idea ! 
There is Margate — a fashion to sneer at Margate, though 
it is one of the healthiest places in the kingdom, built upon 
gravel; gravel, Mark.” 

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Pembridge,” stammered 
Mark, “ I have other plans. Pve come to the conclusion 
that a sedentary life doesn’t suit me — that is to say — ” he 
stopped nervously. Mr. Pembridge drummed on the arm 
of his chair and shifted in his seat. 

“ What, what ? ” he said, with a momentary forgetfulness 
of courtesy ; “ I don’t think I quite understand you.” 

Philistines are terrible persons in their own fastnesses. 
Out in the open, surrounded by his allies, Mark felt he 
could have given a better account of himself ; but here he 
had a contemptible desire to qualify his announcement. 

“ You have not quarrelled with Mr. Range worthy, I 
trust ? From what I saw of him he seemed a most estimable 
man — worthy of the highest conf^ence.” 

“ No, no,” said Mark, hastily ; “ he has been very kind to 
me. What I was going to say was that I don’t think I 
have any real vocation for photography.” 

“ Vocation ? fiddlesticks ! That feeling is no doubt to 
your credit ; perhaps in the case of the Church, or one of 
the learned professions, that sort of hesitation is to be en- 
couraged. Indeed, I would not recommend a young man 
to enter the Church or the Law without careful searching 
as to his fitness for the office. But photography ? — pooh ! 
Who needs a vocation for shoemaking ? ” 

17 


c 


Love with Honour 


“ I should be sorry if you supposed my — my hesitation 

— to come from modesty,” said Mark. “ The fact is, I 
have come to consider photography — as it is practised — 
rather a sham. My work — though it isn’t work, really, 

— makes me feel artificial, almost dishonest. I want some- 
thing bigger ; I think perhaps I might be of more use to 
the world in another way.” 

Mr. Pembridge held up his hands. 

“ God bless my soul ! ” he cried. “ Listen to the boy ! ” 
He mimicked Mark’s utterance. “ He thinks he could be 
of more use to the world — like a Methodist parson. Look 
here, Mark ; you are a very fine fellow, but you mustn’t 
get ideas above your position. Believe me, it’s a very great 
mistake to quarrel with your bread and butter.” 

“ There is the — ” began Mark. 

“Tut, tut — forty pounds a year; a pittance! My 
dear fellow, you are a pauper, a pauper. I’ll tell you what 
it is,” he cried, with a great air of compassion, “ you’ve 
been reading, haven’t you now ? You’ve been reading 
thing-a-my-jig. That’s it, of course ; most unsettling. 
Why, when I was your age I never looked at a book 
outside my professional library. Don’t read, Mark,” he 
coaxed, “ don’t read, at least not just yet. Now what do 
you say to a holiday ? Say ten days, at Margate, eh ? ” 

Mark shook his head. 

“ I think it would be more honest to have it out now, 
Mr. Pembridge. You must remember that I’m old enough 
to know my own mind. I’ve thought it all out, and I see 
quite clearly that I should never do any good at photog- 
raphy, or indeed at anything that kept me indoors. I want 
to get outside,” he cried, his courage rising. “ I’m not 

i8 


Love with Honour 

suited to the miserable, cramped conditions of life in 
houses. I want to come in contact with my fellow- 
creatures.” 

“They’re disappointing, disappointing, Mark; trust an 
old lawyer for that. I think I see how the land lies,” said 
Mr. Pembridge, illuminated by Mark’s allusion to his 
fellow-creatures. “ It’s that German fellow you told me 
of. Don’t like foreigners ; never did like foreigners. He’s 
been filling your head with all sorts of nonsensical social- 
istic ideas ; now, hasn’t he ? ” 

In spite of his agitation Mark smiled at this conception 
of Hermann. 

“No, Mr. Pembridge; I’ve nobody to blame but myself. 
I wish you wouldn’t distress yourself ; there’s really no 
need. Just let me go my own way.” 

Mr. Pembridge rose and walked up and down the office. 
He wheeled round suddenly, and spoke with vehemence. 

“ Now this is a moment when a man finds it difficult to 
reconcile his Christianity with his profession. If I did my 
duty as a Christian,” he thundered, “ I should refuse to 
Jisten to another word. As a Christian, sir, I should take 
you by the collar of your coat and throw you — yes, throw 
you — down that staircase, and let you lie in the gutter 
until you had come to a more reasonable frame of mind.” 

He allowed an effective silence, and, balancing himself 
alternately on his heels and toes, continued in a gentle 
voice, the essence of legal propriety : “As a lawyer, my 
hands are tied. As a lawyer, you have a perfect right to 
enter my office, my own private office, and demand — yes, 
sir, demand — the wherewithal to your own ruin. You 
have every legal right to say to me, ‘ Mr. Pembridge, I am 

19 


Love with Honour 


of age; I desire that you place in my hands, without 
further delay, all papers relating to the administration of 
my estate.’ And I,” his voice trembled, “ as a lawyer, I 
should be compelled, — at the risk of an action for mal- 
praxis, which you would institute with the certainty of a 
verdict, — I should be compelled, though, as a Christian,” 
his voice rose, ‘‘as a Christian and the friend of your 
father, my blood would boil at your insensate conduct.” 
Whatever his duty as a lawyer would have led him to 
answer to Mark’s legal demands Mr. Pembridge did not 
say. Instead, he resorted to sentiment. 

“Your poor, dear father, Mark; oh, if he could hear 
you now ! I remember him as a boy ; I remember him in 
the pride of manhood ; I held his hand when he died. 
Almost his last words were a regret that he had not paid 
more attention to my advice in the conduct of his worldly 
affairs. What would he say if he could hear his son ? 
What — would — he say ! ” He emphasised each word 
with a sorrowful shake of his head. 

“ I’m afraid I’m very obstinate, Mr. Pembridge — ” 

Then Mr. Pembridge let himself go. The righteous 
man of wrath, the suave solicitor, were merged in one 
choleric old gentleman, forgetful of the decencies of lan- 
guage. 

“ Then damme, sir, go your own way — your own 
headlong way. I wash my hands of you. Take your 
affairs, your miserable pettifogging affairs, into your own 
foolish hands. As a trust I valued them — as business I 
treat them with scorn. I absolutely scorn to do business 
with a lunatic.” 

He opened a safe, and, fuming over documents, found 


20 


Love with Honour 


what he needed. He flung a small bundle of papers upon 
the table. 

“There, sir, there is the trust your worthy father con- 
ceded to my hands, a trust I have executed with the most 
scrupulous accuracy. The thirteen hundred pounds — all 
that could be saved out of the confusion of his affairs — 
I invested; I nursed as if they had been my own private 
moneys. The interest — the highest compatible with 
security — has been devoted to your education as befitted 
a penniless orphan, and to your training in an honourable 
calling.” He folded his arms, assuming an air of dignified 
irony. “ It seems that I have been wrong,” he sneered, 
“that I, Anthony Pembridge, an attorney of thirty-nine 
years’ standing, have been mistaken. You shall not say 
I have defrauded you ; you shall impeach neither my pro- 
fessional honesty nor my regard for the memory of my friend, 
in the slightest particular. Understand, sir, there are for- 
malities, for-mal-i-ties. The Law does not allow a man 
even to hang himself without formalities.” He frowned 
and laid his hand protectingly over the papers. “Before 
you obtain possession of these papers you must satisfy the 
Law in the presence of witnesses that you are the said 
Mark Surtees and not an impudent pretender. Then, and 
then only, shall I be justified in relinquishing my trust, 
my trust, for which I have often denied myself a natural 
rest. On Thursday next I will meet you here in the 
presence of witnesses ; my own I will provide, yours — 
you may rake out of the gutter. I wish you good day.” 
He touched a bell. “Spry! — the door.” 

As Mark descended the stair Mr. Pembridge beckoned 
Spry on to the landing. 


Love with Honour 

“ Look ! ” he hissed, “ look — there goes a man to his 
ruin. Spry,’’ he said solemnly, as the youth leaned sui- 
cidally over the baluster, “ if you value the happiness of 
your poor mother, be careful, be very careful, what subjects 
employ your mind. If ever you are tempted to quarrel 
with that state of life to which Providence has called you, 
think of that miserable young man. Think, and be 
warned.” A few minutes later he called Spry into his 
inner office. 

‘‘Spry,” he said, “I was provoked, I was just now 
exasperated into profanity. Make an entry in the petty 
cash book — on the debit side. Spry — of half a crown; 
of two and sixpence, for Charitable Purposes ; for Char-i- 
ta-ble Pur-po-ses.” 

Thursday’s business was hedged about with so much 
legal circumstance as to make the action, on the part of 
Mr. Pembridge at least, almost vindictive. Mark had 
so far pacified him, by letter, that he consented to retain 
the control of his financial affairs. Mr. Pembridge ex- 
plained that, under these circumstances, the only necessary 
formality was Mark’s signature to a Power of Attorney 
giving him authority to buy and sell stock in his name. 
Mark would receive his interest quarterly. 

Mark took himself too seriously to appreciate the humour 
of the scene. 

Mr. Pembridge received him with a formal bow and 
“ Mr. Surtees,” underlining his shattered confidence by 
dropping the familiar “ Mark.” Not that he was uncivil 
— on the contrary, his manner was so austerely friendly as 
to suggest some sinister design beneath the specious cor- 
rectness of the lawyer. Spry was present, apparently for 

22 


Love with Honour 

his moral edification, since he, together with the caretaker 
of the chambers, was only needed for one moment to 
witness Mark’s signature ; and his chastened air only added 
to the icy decency of the business. 

“ Let no one be admitted, Mr. Spry,” said Mr. Pern- 
bridge, as he settled himself in his chair, placing the tips 
of his fingers carefully together. “ You will close the 
outer door so that it may be understood that my entire 
attention is engaged.” 

Spry closed the door with a quietness that was a piece 
of ritual. A little pause was allowed for the recovery of 
absolute calm. As a crowning act of symbolism. Spry 
was motioned to a chair. This was the first time he had 
ever been seated in his master’s private office, and his 
position, a little apart from the others, raised him to the 
significance of an arbitrator. He ceased to be a lawyer’s 
clerk, and became a fellow-creature. He managed to hold 
Mark’s eye for an instant, and his expression was : — 

“You have nothing to hope from me; I am beyond 
corruption.” Mark was not petty, but his feelings were 
as riotous as the place permitted when Mr. Pembridge 
observed : — 

“ Mr. Spry, you have only provided us with one inkpot.” 

During the time that Spry was absent in the outer office 
Mr. Pembridge leaned his forehead on his hand and sighed. 
Mark so far forgot himself as to ask after his health. Mr. 
Pembridge’s look of pained surprise assured him that, on 
such an occasion, health, like the Queen of Spain’s legs, 
was immaterial. Nevertheless, he answered : — 

“I am in my usual health, I thank you, but I am dis- 
turbed in my mind.” 


23 


Love with Honour 


When he had recovered from the consequences of 
Mark’s indiscretion, Mr. Pembridge spoke deep in his 
chest : — 

“ Mr. Spry, I beg you will produce all those papers 
referring to the estate of Mr. Mark Surtees, a minor, in 
trust with Anthony Pembridge, of Branxton Chambers, 
Bloomsbury.” 

When the documents had been placed upon the table, 
Mr. Pembridge continued : — 

‘‘ Mr. Surtees, I believe you will find these papers in 
order. They have been drawn up with all the care and 
skill I have acquired in thirty-nine years of actual practice 
in my profession as an Attorney, and the estate has been 
administered to every advantage compatible with security. 
I desire you will read through these documents that you 
may add your personal affirmation to the confidence in 
their accuracy I already possess. And,” here his voice 
deepened, marking the descent from the lawyer to the 
Christian; “and, before you subscribe that signature 
annulling the trust your father, now deceased, reposed in 
me both as his lawyer and his friend, I ask you to con- 
sider, with all the gravity of which you are capable, to 
what use — what use,” he repeated, emphasising the words 
with his forefinger, “you will put this gift of fortune, to 
wit : thirteen hundred pounds, placed in your hands, to 
have and to hold, for your sole use and that of your heirs 
forever.” 

“ I have already considered,” said Mark, with a fleet- 
ing memory of the baptismal service. He was almost 
surprised that Mr. Pembridge did not continue, “ Wilt 
thou.” He sighed instead, and, addressing himself some- 

24 


Love with Honour 


where between Spry and abstract humanity, embarked 
upon a prophetic history of Mark’s future. He traced 
his descent from vagrancy to beggary, from beggary into 
crime. He had reached a point where Mark in a felon’s 
cell was harassed by the shade of his father, when Spry, 
intoxicated with his passing grandeur, sneezed recklessly. 
Mr. Pembridge shuddered, and, turning to Mark, addressed 
him, this time in the voice of the lawyer : — 

“So I understand, Mr. Surtees, that you persist in 
your absurd intention ? ” Mark bowed ; he felt that 
speech would be crude ; he could not rise to the at- 
mosphere. 

“ Then, ” said Mr. Pembridge, “ there is nothing 
further to be said. You will consider my endeavours to 
correct your views of life but the natural impulse of 
one devotedly attached to your dear father. I repeat 
that, as a lawyer, I exceed the limits of my legal rights 
in making any suggestion whatever as to your use of 
the money now absolutely in your hands. Indeed,” he 
said, with a momentary roguishness, “it is a nice point 
whether you could not now impeach me on the count 
of undue influence.” Here Spry smiled obediently at 
the professional joke. “ No, Mr. Surtees ; I did not 
speak as a lawyer, but as a friend. . . . Mr. Spry, I 
desire that you call Mr. Chidlow.” 

Mr. Chidlow, who entered apparently without moving 
his feet, gazed coldly an inch above Mark’s head, as if 
aware of his worthlessness. He signed his name in the 
appointed space, with a deprecating flourish, and with- 
drew. Mark put down his name as one trumping a 
card, an unconscious protest against the dejection of the 

25 


Love with Honour 

others. Spry, having signed, was, once more a lawyer’s 
clerk, ordered to bring wine ; not the port this time, but 
a sherry that tasted sepulchral, tainted with the chill 
wind blowing over a felon’s grave. Mr. Pembridge 
paid over the first instalment of interest with a cheque. 
Mark caused him a fresh wound by suggesting for the 
future the frivolity of post-office orders. 

On taking his leave, Mark hesitated, not feeling sure 
whether Mr. Pembridge would care to shake hands 
with one already seared with the brand of crime. But, 
indeed, the little lawyer made a point of it. 

Mr. Surtees, in the days of your misfortune you 
will perhaps remember that, at the beginning of your 
downward career, there was held out to you in friend- 
ship the hand of one who, whatever his failings, was 
an honest man.” 

As Mark descended the stair Mr. Pembridge grouped 
himself and Spry into an attitude. They recalled a pic- 
ture of Dante and Virgil on the brink of the Second 
Circle. 


26 


Chapter III 


S O Mark Surtees took the street as one of the 
children of Ishmael. He was a little humili- 
ated that he had made so poor a show as the 
champion of vagabondage; and, as he went, he 
regretted that he had not remembered some of the piquant 
observations on respectability that long practice on the 
slow-moving Hermann had enabled him to frame so 
neatly. Still, the business was over, and Mr. Pembridge 
had done him a real service by summing up the arguments 
of the Philistine in all their nakedness. Mark had now a 
definite quarrel : Society, in the person of Mr. Pembridge, 
had cast him out. 

By the time he had leisure to look about him he 
discovered that he had lost his way. In keeping with 
his train of thought the arid respectability of the houses 
round Branxton Chambers had given place to a flam- 
boyant region where exotic pleasures alternated with 
furtive occupations of more than doubtful legality. The 
street he was in would have discredited an archbishop; 
the dwelling-houses raked or leered, and the small shop 
windows were a pretext. In an English town nothing 
is more suggestive of disreputableness than a foreign 
language; and here, at every third doorway, was flagrant 
evidence in voice or feature of the Latin races. At 

the end of the street a huge factory loomed up, as if 
marking the confines of obvious London. Unfamiliar 
odours reminded Mark that he was hungry, and not 
without a thrill he entered a restaurant bearing the 
27 


Love with Honour 

proud title “ Cafe de POrient ” by one Ciret. The 
room retired guiltily at an angle from a narrow entrance 
to a surprising depth, and at the farther end curtains 
of uncertain crimson suggested an inner chamber that, on 
occasion, could be explained away. Down one side of 
the room little tables evaded the eye of the street 
behind wooden partitions ; whilst mirrors at subtle 
angles at once betrayed to the diner whosoever entered 
the door. 

Anatole Ciret had married an Englishwoman whose 
Parisian gauds became her badly. Heirlooms in dead gold 
demand a gipsy throat, and Madame Ciret was fair and 
florid. Her attitude toward her husband^s customers was 
one of contemptuous pity ; her advertisement of his cates 
so tepid as to court suspicion. It may have been that 
Mark’s evident unfamiliarity with his surroundings con- 
demned him ; whatever the reason, Madame Ciret 
advanced with an air of almost hostility. As she handed 
him a bill of fare her face demanded the reason for his 
presence. “ This is no place for you,” she seemed to 
say; “ why don’t you go to a milk shop ? ” 

Mark assumed a critical knowledge of Continental 
cookery. 

“We have cold beef,” said Madame, apparently to 
the table. 

“But — if you please — I should like to try this,” said 
Mark, pointing to the bill. 

“ Oh, very well,” replied the lady. Her manner in- 
timated, “ I won’t be answerable for the consequences.” 
She only added, however, “ What’ll you drink ? ” 

“ Chablis,” said Mark, with determination. 

28 


Love with Honour 


“ Coffee, tea, cocoa — very good beer,” chanted Madame, 
menacingly. “ No ; Chablis, please,” persisted Mark. 

Madame sighed and moved away. She was heard in 
argument with a buoyant waiter, who ' ceased singing, 
shrugged his shoulders, and disappeared into the street. 
Mark looked round him nervously, lest anyone should have 
witnessed his encounter with Madame Ciret. To his great 
relief there was only one other person in the cafe, a man 
of about his own age, who divided his attention between 
his plate and a book propped open before him. He was a 
sharp-featured youth with indefinite eyes and a retreating 
forehead. Something of Madame Ciret’s doubt was in 
Mark’s own mind ; his fellow-diner, though apparently at 
home, looked out of place ; he would have seemed more 
natural wolfing ham at a luncheon bar. 

The stranger, pushing his plate away with an energetic 
movement, lighted an appalling cigarette. He shot a side 
glance at Mark, and betrayed his youth by an exhalation 
too artistic for mere enjoyment. His remark, civil enough, 
stamped the conscious frequenter of Ciret’s. 

“ Jolly Bohemian sort of place, ain’t it ? ” 

Mark nodded and smiled. 

“ I always dine here,” said the other ; “ can’t stand your 
slabs of steak and muddy beer. Give me something light 
and savoury.” 

He held out a packet of cigarettes. 

“Try one of these while you’re waiting,” he said. 
“They’re real Caporal. I never smoke anything else. 
My name is Topping — Sidney Topping.” 

“And mine is Mark Surtees,” said Mark. “This is 
my first visit to London for three years.” 

29 


Love with Honour 

“ Thought you looked a bit provincial,” observed Mr. 
Topping, frankly. “ After a billet ? ” 

“ No i I don’t intend to stay in town. Pm starting on a 
tramp in a day or two, but I thought Pd have a look round 
first.” 

Mr. Topping looked interested. 

“ Going on a walking tower, are you ? Lucky man ! 
Just my mark,” he said enviously, “just my mark; but 
Pve never been able to do it yet. Pm at Holloway’s, the 
furniture people. Dare say you noticed their place at the 
end of the street. Pm warehouse clerk, you know. . . .” 
He paused, adding confidentially, “ Pve got some ideas that 
don’t fit in with my surroundings. Fond of reading?” 

“ I don’t read much now,” replied Mark. 

“ I understand ; Pve been through it all,” said Mr. 
Topping, sympathetically. “You’ve got advanced ideas, 
like me. Now this is what I call a book.” He held out 
the volume “Le Toison d’Or,” by Theophile Gautier. 
“ Read it?” 

Mark shook his head. He invited Mr. Topping to 
share his wine; the young man consented with affable 
surprise, as if he had fallen upon strawberries in October. 

“Wine, women, and weeds,” he quoted, smacking his 
lips. “That’s what I call Life. You should read this,” 
he continued, turning over the leaves of the book. “ This 
chap had what I call a real good time; didn’t know his 
luck.” He read a few sentences describing the hero’s apart- 
ments, with an alarming pronunciation. “ That’s what I 
call writing ; then there’s Miirger — ever read his ‘ Vy de 
Boheem ’ ? ” Mark assented. Mr. Topping leaned forward 
confidentially. 


30 


Love with Honour 

“ Now that’s the sort of life I’m cut out for,” he said, 
“the Quarteer Latin, grisettes, and all that sort o^ thing; 
instead of which I’m slaving away at old ’Olloway’s at 
twenty-five bob a week — and me an educated man. 
Sickening, I call it.” 

“ It’s not so much the work as the uselessness of it,” 
said Mark, earnestly. “ What does it all lead to ? As a 
matter of fact the world would go on all the same — better, 
perhaps — if most of the occupations stopped going.” 

“ Jesso; my idea to a T,” urged the other ; “ 1 see you’re 
one of the right sort. ‘ Vive la R'epublique^ that’s what I 
say. Now look ’ere. There’s me putting in eight hours 
a day over a job that a kid could do. Of course it’s a living, 
but then there’s plenty of ways of getting a living for a 
man with brains. Why don’t I try some of them, you ask ? 
Now that’s just my point. In England there isn’t a chance 
except you’ve been to college. What do these young toffs 
learn ; what do they know ? Nothing except a little mouldy 
Greek and Latin. Look at young ’Olloway. He comes 
down to the office at ten o’clock smoking his cigar like a 
lord, and there’s me sitting there doing his work. Look at 
my qualifications : shorthand, typewriting, and French cor- 
respondence. What good are they to me ? I do the work, 
but who gets the credit ? Then there’s the Civil Service. 
They gas about its being open to every one. I could pass 
the examinations on my head, but will I ? Wax ! Because 
I know that some young toff will be shoved in over my 
head just because he’s been to college. You should just 
read Harold Bright in the Sunday Star. He gives the 
Government beans, I tell you. He says that the Board 
School boy is the real brain of the country, and that he 

31 


Love with Honour 

ought to hold all the big public offices. He’s right too. 
It’s the same all round — in England. Now in France — 
look at Dumas, what was he ? Same as me and you. He 
hadn’t been to college ; yet look at his plays. Of course, 
I mean Dumas Fills^ not Pear — you understand? Now 
supposing I sent a play to Irving, say, or Hare : would 
they read it ? Would they — nuts ! They’d just sniff at the 
MS. and look for the M.A. after my name. Bah ! it’s 
enough to make a man turn Anarchist.” 

“Have you written a play?” asked Mark, stifling his 
amusement. 

“ Not me ; I know a trick worth two of that. What 
we’ve got to do is to clear the ground — destroy the drones. 
That’s what Fournier says. He’s one of ’Olloway’s chaps 

— designer, you know.” He looked round swiftly. 

“Tell you what,” he whispered hoarsely, “ there’s some 

rum things goes on in this little caffy ; there’s chaps 
come here that Scotland Yard would give their eyes to 
get. No, sir,” he said grandly, “ we don’t give comrades 
away.” 

“ As for socialism,” said Mark, thoughtfully, “ I don’t 
altogether think that a solution of the difficulty. You see 
it’s only changing the point of view ; the object — property 

— remains the same. Now, I want people to come 
forward and show the emptiness of all that. After all, 
what does a man really need ? ” 

Mr. Topping looked a trifle bored. 

“ Ah, you should hear Fournier talk ; he’d make you sit 
up. I say, are you doing anything to-night ? No ? Then 
let’s look in at the Vivacity ; I’ll stand. There’s a friend 
of mine sings there. It’s a tidy show all round, but when 
32 


Love with Honour 


Guy Danvers comes on it’s a fair knock-out. Can’t un- 
derstand why he hasn’t made his name. Jealousy, I 
suppose; and then, you see, he’s no push, doesn’t know his 
own value.” 

“ Who is Guy Danvers ? ” 

“There you have me. He’s always billed as Danvers 
pure et simple. I call him Guy for short, but then, you 
see, we’re pals. My belief is he’s a nobleman in disguise. 
You can see at a glance he’s a broken-down swell — and 
he says himself he’s been in the army — orfcer, you know. 
Why he left and why he came to this is a mystery. 
‘ Cherches la Fern,’ I suppose.” He sighed indulgently. 
“ And he’s been a boyoh for the girls — real ladies too. 
Ah ! but he can sing.” He tilted his chair backward and, 
placing his hat at a rakish angle, lighted a cigarette. 

“Well, we’d better be off,” he said. “Bong swor, 
Madame.” 

“ So long,” replied the lady, coldly. “ Mind you don’t 
take that young man into mischief.” 

“Aha,” murmured Mr. Topping, buttoning up his coat. 
“ Wait another year — only another year, and then^ They 
walked along the pavement in silence, Mr. Topping paus- 
ing to scowl at a stray policeman, who looked strangely 
large and blond among the undersized inhabitants of the 
neighbourhood. 

The entertainment at the Vivacity was inoffensive, if a 
trifle dull. When the two young men entered, a mature 
I young lady in the undress uniform of a naval commander 
was warbling a strain about a ship that came home. At 
i least whether the ship came home or not was not divulged ; 
I a certain midshipman — the young lady — vaguely “ abroad,” 
D 33 


Love with Honour 


asserted her intention of marrying somebody the moment it 
should. 

Guy Danvers was a tall, elderly man with a high, round 
forehead and a disagreeable smile — partly resulting from 
attempts to hide his defective teeth. He took the stage 
with a furtive manner, a suppressed swagger, as it were; and 
one felt that, though he heartily despised his audience, he 
would have been vexed by their neglect. There was great 
enthusiasm on his appearance. He exposed his broken 
fortunes in a maudlin aside of glance and gesture, hesi- 
tating, as if to recover from his emotion. Some one 
cried ‘‘ Buck up, Danvers,’’ and he laid his hand upon his 
heart. The man had a remarkably sweet voice, the 
product of an obsolete method, and the songs he gave were 
novel from their very age — forgotten melodies of Arne and 
Purcell, believed to be the singer’s own compositions. He 
sang with taste and feeling, the exaggerated sentiment of 
the words fitting in with the popular conception of the 
singer. In spite of his pleasure in the music, Mark found 
himself more interested in watching the man. His appear- 
ance excited a morbid curiosity ; there was the suggestion 
of deliberate self-indulgence which, for all his pitiable 
weakness, left a final impression of power. When an 
encore was insisted upon, Danvers wept, begging his 
audience, with a deprecating gesture, to spare a broken 
man. Apparently his hearers were used to his methods, for 
they clapped the louder, and he gave “ The Thorn ” with 
declamatory vigour. 

“Well, what price that ? ” said Mr. Topping, defiantly. 

“ You’re right, he can sing,” answered Mark. 

“Rather; yet he don’t get on. See that chap in the 
34 


Love with Honour 

stalls? He’s the musical critic of The Week. He’s been 
here frequently for some time, and it’s my belief he’s got 
something up his sleeve. If I had the oof I’d run Danvers 
myself. / discovered him, you know ; but what can I do ? 
He’s so beastly proud he won’t let a man put in a word, 
or I would have spoken to some of the big managers. 
Would you like to be introduced to him ? ” Mark nodded. 
“ All right, we’ll cut this ; he’s not on again to-night, and 
we shall catch him at the stage door.” 

They slipped out of the hall and went round into the 
blind alley. 

“ Good evening, Guy,” said Mr. Topping. 

“Ah, Topping — been inside?” enquired Danvers, list- 
lessly. “Was I in good form ? ” 

“A i,’^ said Topping; adding excitedly, “he was there 
again to-night.” 

“ Really ? I suppose somebody has commissioned him 
to buy the St. Hill woman,” he said, with an unpleasant 
falsetto laugh. 

“ Rats ! ” cried Mr. Topping, with scorn. “Think he’d 
waste his time over trash like that ? No, I tell you, they’re 
not all fools, even on the papers. You just wait and if you 
don’t get — I’m not saying it’ll be the Promenade all at 
once,” he whispered. “When you come on he wrote 
something on his cuff. What does that mean ? ” 

“ Pooh, Topping, your imagination runs away with 
you. Did you see that little girl to your right — sitting 
next to a counter-jumper of some sort ? She cried like 
anything, while I was singing ‘The Forsaken’ thing. I 
was fearfully upset, pretty little woman.” 

“Listen to him!” cried Topping, admiringly ;“ here’s 

35 


Love with Honour 


a man as might have managers on their knees holding out 
blank cheques to him, and all he thinks about is a snivel- 
ling girl. It beats me. This is Mr. Surtees — friend of 
mine.” 

Jny friend of Mr. Topping’s ; pleased to meet you, 
Fm sure.” 

“ Shall we ? ” said Mr. Topping, with a jerk of his head. 

“Well — ah — really. Topping, if you wish j where shall 
it be ? ” 

“ What do you say to Ciret’s ? ” 

“ Admirable.” 

They turned. Topping whispered to Mark : — 

“Deuced lucky to get him in the humour j you shall 
hear him talk.” 

At Ciret’s Topping commanded the buoyant waiter — 
now obsequious. 

Danvers laid his hand on his arm. 

“No, no. Topping, really — permit me.” 

“ It’s an honour, I tell you ; what’s it to be ? ” 

“ Mr. — er — Surtees, I appeal to you ; this good fel- 
low — ” 

“ What do you say to oysters ? ” 

“ On condition that you allow — ” 

“Allow be blowed : this is my shout.” 

During the little altercation Mark stood on one side. 
Danvers’s protest was so pathetically transparent, yet not 
more pathetic than the serious way Topping received it. 
They seated themselves to oysters with their conventional 
accompaniments, and Topping glowed with conscious pride 
as the giver of the feast. 

“ Mr. Surtees, I ask a toast,” he said, holding^ his glass 
36 


Love with Honour 


of stout. I name no names because the time is not yet 
come.” 

“ Topping, you overpower me. I shall never complain 
of neglect whilst I know that one man appreciates my poor 
talent.” 

“ Oh, drop that, I say,” said Topping, modestly. “ It’s 
a plain duty ; do you think I’m going to stand by and see 
the finest tenor in England overlooked ? Not me. Mr. 
Surtees, here’s to — ” 

He drained his glass, and, setting it down, nodded and 
winked. ‘‘ It won’t be here in a year’s time. I ’umbly 
apologise, Guy, that I can’t do you better. Such as it is, 
my heart goes with it.” 

Danvers waved his hand. 

“ Well, Topping, I mustn’t complain. I’ve had the 
sweets, and I suppose I must have the bitter.” He swallowed 
an oyster, with swimming eyes. It seems unfeeling,” he 
said, in his tremulous voice, “ that one should sit here eating 
oysters while perhaps the woman one loves is dying in want. 
I’m a bad man, Mr. Surtees.” 

‘‘ Cheer up, old man,” said Topping, anxiously, “ you’re 
out of sorts. Have some more stout and tell us some of 
your adventures.” 

Danvers revived sufficiently to tell several anecdotes of 
the mischief wrought to the fair by his perilous voice and 
manner. 

“ I can’t help it,” he apologised. “ I’ve never gone out 
of my way to attract a single woman. It seems like Fate.” 

Mark was thoroughly disgusted. He looked round the 
room for a diversion, and was disappointed to observe that 
most of the suppers were stout and incredibly respectable, 

37 


Love with Honour 


The only picturesque figure in the room was a young man 
in a long, light grey overcoat. He wore a mustache and 
imperial, his long, fair hair strained back from his forehead. 
He carried a tall malacca cane with a gold top j a soft silk 
scarf escaped over his waistcoat from a ring at his throat ; 
a crimson handkerchief emerged from his breast pocket ; and 
his unusually small feet were encased in patent leather shoes. 
He sat for a long time in an attitude of profound melan- 
^ choly, until, catching Topping’s eye, he nodded and smiled. 

“ Why, there’s Fournier,” cried the youth, delightedly. 
Fournier rose and came over to their table. Mark was in- 
troduced to him, Danvers he already knew. 

“Are you coming upstairs?” asked Fournier, “our 
friends are there. No doubt Signor Danvers might be in- 
duced to sing ? ” 

A little society to which Topping belonged met occasion- 
ally in an upper room of the Cafe de I’Orient. The 
members were chiefly of the same or allied trades, engaged 
in the manipulation of timber, from the yard labourer ris- 
ing through the carpenter and cabinet-maker to the French- 
polisher and designer. Their social views clouded with their 
ascent, and with their political tendencies their nationality ♦ 
was complicated. The rough hewers were English and of 
the usual vague Radical type ; with the cabinet-makers one 
had German Jews, Poles, and a Frenchman, all support- 
ing degrees of socialism. The French-polishers were an- 
archistic. At the top of the scale were Fournier and a worker 
in marquetry, an Italian, who professed a nihilism so pro- 
nounced, so personal, that his colleagues were afraid of him. 
To call the gathering a society were a misnomer, their 
bond of union being the habit of discontent and a desire to 
38 


Love with Honour 


air their views. Broadly, the quarrel of the Englishmen 
was with their employers ; the foreigners found their 
difference with society in general, chiefly with that vague 
entity. Government. ‘‘ Business done ” in concert never 
went farther than the fomentation of labour disputes and 
votes of sympathy with brethren on the Continent whom 
greater boldness had betrayed into action. Occasionally an 
agitator of notoriety was induced to attend. 

One common sentiment of these men was their mild^ 
contempt for Topping. Their acceptance of the term 
“ worker ” was strictly limited, and did not include clerks. 
They found him useful, however, for Topping was able to 
put things on paper better than most, and his industry in 
following the news of the day kept them provided with fresh 
examples of injustice. 

Danvers was easily flattered into acceptance of Fournier’s 
suggestion, and, placing his grey wideawake at an effective 
angle, the Frenchman led the way upstairs. He flung open 
a door, removed his hat, folded his arms, and cried : — 

“ Comrades, I present to you Signor Danvers, the great 
tenor singer.” 

There was a murmur of applause in several languages ; 
chairs were pushed aside and the new-comers invited to a 
bewildering variety of drinks. When Mark’s eyes were 
used to the dense cloud of bad tobacco smoke, he made 
out a long, low room beset with little, round tables at which 
groups of men were playing dominoes. The majority 
seemed to be German and Polish Jews : dejected men with 
sallow, sunken cheeks and long, cigarette-stained fingers. 
At the far end of the room sharp cockney cries called his 
attention to persons of another type : smart-looking young 
39 


Love with Honour 

men, two in their shirt sleeves playing billiards, others 
seated on a shabby lounge against the wall, following the 
game with close attention. In one corner two heavy-browed 
Germans, sunk in chess, drank lager out of tall mugs with 
rhythmical precision between the moves. At intervals a 
waiter slid in and out of the room, rattled downstairs, and 
presently returned with a bottle or jug. 

Near the door a little raised platform supported a harmo- 
nium; Fournier seated himself at the instrument and drew 
out enticing arpeggios. Some of the domino players threw 
back their heads with doglike gestures, and droned nasally, 
but always in tune. Urged by Topping, Danvers made 
his way to the platform. The click of the billiard balls 
suddenly ceased ; the chess players emptied their mugs, and 
from automata became critical human beings. 

The reason for Danvers’s popularity at Ciret’s was appar- 
ent the moment he began to sing. The maudlin posturing 
he used at the music hall disappeared ; he was on his mettle ; 
he knew that at least some of his audience were worth con- 
sidering. He sang a couple of Schubert’s songs, if not 
powerfully, at least with sincerity. Listening to him, Mark 
forgot the offensive personality of the man and regretted 
his silly title. Danvers freshened under the genuine 
applause of his hearers and became almost a man. Fournier, 
who vamped with genius, led him off into a ballad of Be- 
ranger’s set to music of his own composition. He was 
pressed for others, and there was an excited interchange be- 
tween the two men, the singer humming a theme,, his fore- 
finger marking time; the accompanist, his face upturned, 
magically following the air. It was pitiful to watch the fever 
of a forgotten ambition working in Danvers’s degenerate 


Love with Honour 


blood : his foolish eyes grew bright and serious ; he made 
desperate excursions, now catching the run of a melody to 
give it up with an impatient shake of his head — the break- 
down pardoned by his hearers with sympathetic murmurs. 
After two or three efforts, painful in their intensity, the 
man’s memory held sound ; he straightened himself, and 
broke into a swinging measure full of hope and courage. It 
sounded as if all humanity were on the march to some new 
world ; and, indeed, the feet of those in the room were beat- 
ing time on the uncarpeted floor. The dusky room was lit 
with flashing eyes and teeth ; here and there a man uncon- 
sciously stood up. The song ended in a shout of triumph 
drowned in a crash of applause. 

Danvers would not sing again. He stared into the ex- 
cited faces of his audience. 

“ I have not sung that for twenty years,” he murmured 
stupidly; then, with a pettish movement; “ Fm tired, 
gentlemen. I must go home.” Topping followed him to 
the door. ‘‘No, if you please,” said Danvers, with a strange 
courtesy, “ I wish to be alone. ” 

Topping returned crestfallen. The billiards began again 
half-heartedly, the dejected Poles drooped a little more, 
and the drowsy murmur of conversation filled the room. 
Fournier and Topping engaged in an ill-tempered argument; 
one and another of the men joined in ; the name “ Hol- 
loway’s” was frequently mentioned. From what Mark 
could gather, Holloway’s were considering an alteration in 
their business the men did not favour. It had been found that 
the various parts of cheap furniture could be imported from 
America at very little more than the cost of the timber ; 
which plan, if adopted, would mean the discharge of a cer- 

4 ^ . , i 


Love with Honour 


tain number of half-skilled workmen. Discussion was bit- 
ter, but irrelevant ; indeed the principal grievance, dismally 
intoned by one of the men affected, was that “young 
’Olloway kept ’unters.” Fournier was for generalisations ; 
he presently got on his feet and harangued the room. 

“ Is Holloway’s the only firm in the world ? What shall 
our brethren say to us ? These little quarrels are of no use 
to the workers ; is is the system we must attack ; the tyrant 
who sits at his dinner with his women and laughs. It is 
not for ourselves we strive, but for the common cause of 
Humanity. For that — one can live — but shall these 
vampires be suffered to drink our blood and the blood of 
our babes ” 

At the word “ babes ” a little quiet, elderly man sprang to 
his feet like a piece of machinery set going with a touch. 

“ Yes, yes,” he cried, “ who will give me back my little 
ones ? I am hunted like a wild beast from place to place ; 
I who have never done any man harm. My hearth is cold, 
my roof torn down, my children dead from hunger ! ” His 
voice rose to a cracked wail, and in his agitation he 
knocked over a glass. 

“ By Jove,” murmured Topping, delightedly, “ if he keeps 
on like that we shall have the police in.” It was the dream 
of Topping’s life to figure on the charge-sheet as partici- 
pator in a disorderly meeting. “ Listen ! — I believe they’re 
coming.” 

But Madame Ciret filled the door. 

“ No you don’t,” she said, her arms akimbo, “ no you 
don’t. Sit down, you old fool.” Puccini obeyed. 

“ Now then — who broke that glass ? ” 

Puccini, suddenly calmed, passed his hands in a dazed 
42 


Love with Honour 


manner over his face. His bushy eyebrows shot up and 
down, his toothless jaws worked convulsively. 

“ Puccini, you owe me twopence j Fd like it now, 
please.” 

Puccini muttered abstractly and, fumbling in a leather bag, 
took out twopence. 

‘‘ You’d better get along ’ome ; your daughter’s waitin’ 
in the cafFy,” said Madame Ciret, not unkindly. ‘‘You 
ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” she said to the others, 
“ exciting a poor cracked old man like that. He’s had his 
troubles ; you haven’t.” 

“When Madame is pleased to retire the meeting will 
continue,” observed Fournier, politely. 

“ Not a bit of it,” said Madame, stoutly, “ out you go, the 
whole job lot of you. I said to Ciret the last time you were 
here, ‘ Pm not going to lose my custom for a lot of idle 
vagabonds as hasn’t the pluck to do anything but make a 
noise.’ . . . Pm waiting to turn out the gas ; those who 
want to stay can sit in the cafFy downstairs.” 

Fournier shrugged his shoulders, but moved to the door. 
The others got up and filed out silently, Madame Ciret 
bidding each one a cheerful “ good night ” as they passed 
downstairs. 

“ Now, Topping,” she said, “ I lay this to you. If you’re 
not careful, I shall let Holloway’s know how you go on stir- 
ring up quarrels as are none of yours. And you, young 
gentleman, take my advice and don’t be led away by bad 
companions.” 


43 


Chapter IV 


H OW much Mark was influenced by Words- 
worth in his choice of direction he did not 
care to admit. He was so determined upon 
reality that he tried to ignore any bias from 
books. Nevertheless, after facing the four winds, he 
decided on stepping westward. He was unwilling even 
to allow the romance of the words, or the faint pull of his 
early memories, but reasoned thus : northward led to the 
large industrial centres, and his evening at Ciret’s had 
given him enough of industry in the technical sense ; south- 
ward was suburban even to Brighton, whilst on the east one 
came immediately to the sea. So, with a fine sense of the 
fortuitous, he turned his face and marched with the sun. 
Once beyond bricks and mortar his spirits lightened; he 
had, however, to learn that the freedom of the road is not so 
simple a matter as it appears. One may tramp the whole 
world, yet remain a mere pedestrian, a being, from the vaga- 
bond’s point of view, hardly less contemptible than the 
commercial traveller. Mark had it forcibly brought home 
to him how invincible is the ritual of rising and going to 
bed, the tyranny of meal-time. Nor did blank inversion 
of custom serve him ; instead of inhaling the air of freedom, 
he found he was but dodging the dinner hour. Added 
to this artificial annoyance was the large, vague fear of 
outdoors. He had so long reposed upon landmarks 
that he shrank from trusting himself to the unnoted ways 
between village and village. There was the ridiculous 
dread of losing himself; and, though he assured himself 

44 


Love with Honour 


fiercely that it did not matter, he still found his eyes look- 
ing for the finger-post at every crossroads. He made 
advances to travelling tinkers, hoping some vivid illumina- 
tion from the study of their habits, but they would none of 
him. They either mocked or cadged. As he urged west- 
ward he found there was a close ring of the road, with rites 
of initiation and a finished intelligence department. He 
was known in villages before he arrived ; some faint 
suspicion awaited him at every inn. One little adventure 
served at once to complete his education and make him free 
of the confraternity. 

On the outskirts of a Berkshire hamlet Mark fell in with 
a Birmingham merchant, hawker of kitchen miracles in 
wire and tin : saucepans, gridirons, frying pans, toasting 
forks — what not, each utensil at sixpence ha’penny. The 
cart, drawn by an elderly white horse, made a not unmusi- 
cal progress through the country lanes, each article con- 
tributing its individual note to the general harmony, from 
the cymbal clash of baking tins to the fretful jingle of 
nutmeg graters hanging from the centre bar used to support 
a tarpaulin in bad weather. The driver, like a good con- 
ductor, was so used to the ensemble of sound that his ear 
detected the silence of any instrument in his orchestra ; and 
he was able to answer “ all sold ” to a request for mouse- 
traps, without even turning his head to examine the contents 
of his cart. The vehicle, a mere frame on two wheels, 
was a focus of light, reflecting little suns into the hedge on 
either hand. 

The day was hot and dusty, and Mark’s involuntary 
glance at the cart was answered by the driver shifting a foot 
along the seat and beckoning. The tintinnabulation was 

45 


Love with Honour 


for a moment reduced to a trio or so, a triumphant tutti 
heralding Mark’s acceptance of the lift as they moved on 
again. The man, who said his name was Barker, was 
friendly and prodigal of his alleged history. He was thin 
and fair, with a long nose and scanty beard ; he wore a red 
and black check scarf wound many times round his 
throat. Mr. Barker had been brought up to the iron- 
mongery, he said, and was doing pretty well for himself 
when some difference with his employer, in which Mr. 
Barker had behaved with Christian patience and the other 
like an Eastern despot, led to his losing his berth, appar- 
ently with no prospect of getting another. Then there was 
a gap. Mark’s innocence prevented him surmising that 
the interval had been spent in jail. 

“ So my pals give me a friendly lead and set me up with 
the whole turnout. I do the road from London to Barstow, 
up to Birmingham, refit, and back agin to London — a sort 
of triangle, as you may say.” 

Mr. Barker waited politely for Mark to begin ; then, 
gently whipping up his nag, ran his eye over the young 
man’s knapsack, and said : — 

“ Garden seeds an’ implements, I dessay.” 

Mark was puzzled for a moment, and did not answer, 
which caused Mr. Barker to eye him hard. He touched 
the pack, and explained. 

“ No,” said Mark, “ I’m not a commercial traveller.” 

Lookin’ for a job, maybe ? ” 

“Well, no; I’m not exactly in want of a job just at 
present.” Mr. Barker looked incredulous ; they jogged on 
in silence for half a mile. Presently Mr. Barker sat up 
with an air of conviction. 


46 


Love with Honour 

“ There’s a power of good as might be done to them 
pore souls,” he said, waving his whip round the landscape. 
He spoke with an unction only to be acquired in one 
place. Church Army or Gorspel Temp’rance ? ” Mark 
burst out laughing. 

‘‘ No, no, ” he said, ‘‘ that’s not my trade at all ; do I 
look it ? The fact is. I’m just travelling for pleasure.” 

“ Hoxford or Kembridge, may I arst ? ” said Mr. Barker, 
with stolid sarcasm, looking straight ahead the while. 
Mark laughed again. 

“ Oh, garn ! ” said Mr. Barker, turning his head sullenly 
away. “You make me tired. If you can’t give a civil 
answer to a civil question, there’s no need to keep coddin’. 
I may be cabbage-lookin’, but I arn’t green.” He kept a 
sulky silence until his curiosity became intolerable. 

“Wot was you before you took to this — towerist 
business ? ” 

“ I was a photographer.” 

“ Now you’re talkin’,” said Mr. Barker, almost genially. 
“ How did you come to lose your kit — landlord pinched it 
for rent ? ” 

“ My kit ? ” 

“Yus; the ’andcart and other fakements,” said Mr. 
Barker, impatiently ; “ didn’t run to a moke, I s’pose ? ” 

“ I wasn’t a travelling photographer,” explained Mark, 
tiring of the game. “ I was an assistant, in a shop.” 

“ Oh — sacked, I see; well, I don’t think any the worse 
of you for that.” ' 

“No, I wasn’t sacked, either; I just got tired of it and 
went on a tramp.” Barker spat indignantly, and flogged his 
beast. 


47 


Love with Honour 

‘‘ Where d’you come from ? ” he asked, hopelessly. 

Mark misunderstood the question, and gave him the name 
of his last halting place, Reading. 

‘‘ Good Gawd ! ” cried Mr. Barker, jumping round on 
his seat. He looked at Mark agitatedly. “ Good lummy ! ’’ 
he said again, white with emotion. Mark was interested. 

“Well, what’s the matter now he asked. 

Mr. Barker licked his lips, and briskened up his horse, 
but did not answer. 

“ Fill up,” said Mark, offering his tobacco pouch by way 
of encouragement. 

“ No,” said Mr. Barker, emphatically, “ oh, no, not if 
you please.” 

They went ahead, Mr. Barker now and again eyeing him 
askance. Once he murmured softly, “ Well, Fm damned.” 

Mark was considerably mystified, but did not press the 
now taciturn driver. At a point where a grassy lane 
diverged he asked Mr. Barker to stop that he might get 
down. The man’s face lengthened. 

“ Oh, come, I s’y ; that ain’t friendly.” 

“You’re very good,” said Mark, “but I want to see the 
country a bit.” Mr. Barker hesitated. 

“ Where d’you doss ? ” he asked. 

“ Sheppingway.” 

“No kid ? ” implored Mr. Barker, “you ain’t a goin’ to 
give me — I mean you don’t ’appen to prefer a barn, maybe, 
or a haystack ? ” 

“ I haven’t tried sleeping out yet,” said Mark ; “ it’s 
hardly warm enough. I shall try a haystack as the summer 
comes on.” Mr. Barker appeared to be weighing chances; 
he measured Mark up and down, and scratched his head. 

48 


Love with Honour 


“ Ain’t it comfortable enough ? ” he cried, with feverish 
hospitality, “ stay — I’ve got some sacks behind there. Now 
do ! ” He turned warily and fumbled amongst the goods in 
the cart. 

“ No, thanks,” said Mark ; “ I’d rather loaf about a bit.” 

‘‘ All right,” said Mr. Barker, disconsolately. “ If you 
will walk, I s’pose you must. Well — so long,” he added, 
as Mark prepared to descend. When he had turned the 
corner, Mr. Barker dropped his whip and stood up on the 
seat. He gazed anxiously round the country, looked at his 
watch, and sat down again. 

“Well, I’m bust,” he sighed, and shook up his aged steed 
into a jingling trot. 

Mark made Sheppingway toward dusk. As was his 
wont, he sauntered through the village and back again, pick- 
ing out the most attractive-looking public house. He settled 
on the “ Bear and Billet.” He had made his meal and was 
smoking in the bar parlour when Mr. Barker, pale and ex- 
cited, peered in. He bobbed his head back at sight of Mark, 
who thought him singularly shy. 

Presently the village police sergeant strolled in with an 
air of indifference. He shouldered an ash-plant, and was 
accompanied by a wire-haired terrier with crooked legs. 
Mr. Barker shielded behind them. 

“ Oh, good evenin’,” said the policeman, with honeyed 
ease. Mark nodded. 

“Just havin’ a look round ?” 

“ Yes,” said Mark, surprised, but not displeased, by 
this official recognition of his presence in Sheppingway. 
He wondered whether he ought to ask the sergeant to 
drink. 


E 


49 


Love with Honour 


“ Quite a historial place,” pursued the constable, look- 
ing up at the ceiling. 

‘‘ Really ? ” said Mark. ‘‘ I wasn’t aware that Shepping- 
way was noted for anything.” Here the tap-room shook its 
head and giggled sheepishly. The little dog sat down, and, 
lolling out a red length of tongue, panted in anticipation. 

“ Very nice little pack that,” said the sergeant, laying his 
broad hand upon Mark’s knapsack. Mark began to be an- 
noyed. 

“Yes,” he said, “but it happens to be mine, and I don’t 
like my things touched.” 

“ Look ’ere, young man,” said the policeman, with a 
relapse into his official voice, “there’s them as can’t be denied, 
which the Law is one.” 

“But I don’t see — ’’began Mark, indignantly. The 
policeman sighed. 

“ I’ve taken a fancy to look into that bag, that’s all.” 
Barker, behind, perspired expectantly ; the tap-room looked 
at its toes and murmured parables of the law. 

“ But what on earth is the meaning of this ?” cried Mark. 
“ Gentlemen, I appeal to you ; is this the sort of hospitality 
a stranger meets with in Sheppingway ? ” But the tap-room 
looked stonily the other way. 

“ Now, which is it to be,” said the policeman, mildly, 
“ you opens that bag or you comes along with me to the 
station ’ouse ? ” 

“ Oh, all right, ” cried Mark, “ if it will give you any 
satisfaction,” and, opening his knapsack, he tumbled the 
contents out on the table. At this moment a horsey-look- 
ing man entered, quietly, though his quick breathing 
showed he had been running. He looked at Mark. 

50 


Love with Honour 

“That ain’t ’im,” he said shortly, and shouted for beer. 

“ Wha-at ? ” cried Mr. Barker. 

“ That ain’t ’im, you juggins : bloke we want is six foot 
an’ ginger — Mary, Mary ! ” He spoke without turning 
his head, and continued shouting for beer. 

“Well, of all the — ” began Mr. Barker. 

“Look ’ere. Barker,” said the sergeant, severely, “this 
ain’t the first time as you’ve made trouble. I don’t want 
to be narsty, but them as fiddles needn’t always be pulling 
of the ’orse’s tail.” 

“ True, aye, true,” chanted the tap-room in unison. 
Mr. Barker swore gently. 

“ Nor ar’n’t this the place for ob-scene language, 
neither,'^’ pursued the constable. He gazed abstractedly 
at a vase of spills and scratched his stubbly throat. 

“ I s’pose you don’t ’appen to ’ave such a thing as a license 
about you ? ” he asked, as one requesting a light for his pipe. 

“ Left it at ’ome on the pianner,” answered Mr. Barker, 
savagely. 

“ None o’ your lip now,” said Robert, with melancholy 
good humour. Mr. Barker produced his hawker’s license. 
The policeman turned right about with military accuracy, 
shouldered his stick, whistled his dog, and passed out. 
Barker remained standing in the middle of the room; 
Mark sat on a corner of the table. 

“ You never know the minute,” sighed the tap-room, and 
drooped into its mugs. 

“ But I say, look here,” said Mark, “ what’s all this 
about ? ” Mr. Barker looked at him gloomily. 

“Well, ’ow was I to know as you wasn’t ’im ? You 
was a photographer and you said you come from Reading.” 

51 


Love with Honour 


“ Him — who ? ” 

“ Chap as done a guy. ” Matters were still obscure, but 
a little cheerful man with a squint broke into a voluble 
explanation. It seemed that a young fellow in Reading, 
employed in a shop, “ not exactly a photographer’s, but a 
fancy shop where they sold photographs of cathedrals and 
suchlike,” was wanted for robbing his master’s till. 

“ He’d got into bad company, betting, and borrowed 
money. That was why Mr. Shackleton come in for 
identification — he’d done him out of thirty-five shillin’. 
You may be quite comfortable now Mr. Shackleton says 
you ain’t ’im,” said the little man, reassuringly. Mark turned 
on Mr. Barker with slow disgust. 

“ So you thought I was this poor devil,” he said scorn- 
fully, “ and you wanted to give me away ? ” 

“ What I say is this,” broke in the cheerful man, “ people 
as seems what they ain’t, as the poet says, can’t complain 
if they’re taken for them as wishes to be thought other- 
wise. Mr. Barker may have been a bit hasty, but let 
credit be given where it is meant, that’s what I say. Ain’t 
that so, Mr. Barker ? ” 

“ Oh, shut it,” said Mr. Barker, dejectedly. 

“ No offence, no offence,” said the cheerful man. 

“ But I say,” persisted Mark, stuffing his things into the 
bag, “ what would you gain by giving me away ? ” Mr. 
Barker scratched his ear and spat carefully between his 
feet. 

“ Dunno,” he said, “ price of a pint, maybe.” 

Mark gasped. “ Good Lord ! ” he cried, “ and you’d sell 
a man for a drink ! Not that I should grudge you the 
price ; what’ll you take ? ” 


52 


Love with Honour 

‘‘ Lemon dash,” answered Mr. Barker. Over his liquor 
he grew talkative, and gave Mark valuable advice. 

“You see,” he said, “when you’re — travellin’ — it 
always pays to be something as a body can put a name to. 
Of course it ain’t everybody as can run to a ’orse and turn- 
out, but there’s lots of little cheap fakes such as wife in the 
’ouse, sick children, kettle to mend, or even boot laces.” 

“ I am afraid none of those would do for me,” said 
Mark, humouring him; “you see. I’m not married, and I 
couldn’t mend a kettle to save my life.” Mr. Barker 
looked at him with unspeakable contempt. 

“What o’ that ? ” he said, “ nobody arst ye to be something ; 
all I says is you must say you’re something — and look it. 
Of course there is toffs as goes on towers, but,” he paused, 
delicately hinting that Mark’s appearance did not suggest 
the nobleman travelling for pleasure. “ ’Go’s goin’ to take 
the trouble to find out ? ” he continued, “ that’s what I want 
to know. So long as you says your lay is mousetraps or 
hearthrugs, and looks it, there’s no questions arst — unless 
they’ve got your description, which ain’t likely if you ain’t 
been lagged before. ” After a thoughtful and productive 
silence Mr. Barker spoke again. 

“ ’Ere’s your lay,” he said, finishing up his beer ; “ goin’ 
to a new job — say Barstow. Missis and kids gone 
with the sticks by rail ; you’re paddin’ it to save expense. 
If you want fancy touches, — though I don’t set much 
by fancy touches, they’re confusin’ when you forget, — 
Missis has got a bad leg an’ expectin’ another. ” Mark 
thanked him, and Mr. Barker, gathering himself together, 
said he must be going. At the door he turned. 

“ Couldn’t do with a fryin’ pan, or kettle, or suchlike 

53 


Love with Honour 


I’ve all sorts on the cart — all at sixpence ha’penny.” 
Mark shook his head. “ I’m afraid not,” he said, “ I bar 
cooking my own grub.” 

“All right; well — so long.” 

Thus Mark, made free of the road, pursued an afflicted 
wife westward through three counties. Curiously, with his 
initiation into the ring, came the larger welcome of nature. 
He no longer hugged the village, but grew skilful in byways. 
His new feeling of security was largely due to his having 
an object ; the mere fact laid down that he was so-and-so 
making for such a place, and the rest was added to him. 
Somewhere, at the end of desultory lanes, the spires of the 
“ dim rich city ” of Barstow shook in enchanted air. 

Midway through Somerset Mark made an appalling dis- 
covery. At the rate he was spending his money he would 
be bankrupt in a fortnight. It was now the beginning of 
June, and his next remittance was not due until the end of 
the month. At the outset of his journey he had roughly 
calculated his weekly expenditure at thirteen and tenpence, 
leaving one and twopence — surely an ample margin — for 
“ emergencies.” He made a little table thus : — 


Tobacco, . 

Supper, Bed, and Breakfast, 
Lunch, 


1 o 
10 6 

2 4 


Total, 


13 10 


Sitting by the roadside, he counted over his money ; it 
came to exactly I 5 To carry him on he should 

have had £2 5. For the rest of the month he must live upon 
eight shillings a week, with one and elevenpence ha’penny 


54 


Love with Honour 


over for emergencies, or a celebration when his remittance 
arrived. After the first chopfallen five minutes he began 
to enjoy the one and elevenpence ha’penny in anticipation. 
As he lay on his back, gazing up through a lime that resem- 
bled a giant maidenhair fern, one and elevenpence ha’penny 
expanded in a fortune. He repeated the sum syllable by 
syllable in the manner of Mr. Pembridge. What could he 
not do with such riches ? It was difficult to decide between 
a gallery seat in the theatre at Barstow, a half bottle of hock 
— the colour of the light on his eyelids — or half a dozen 
cigars. That brought him sharp to the ground. Eight 
shillings a week left nothing for tobacco. He rolled over 
on his face, exchanging the gold green haze for a tiresome 
reality of crushed grass and hurrying ants reproaching him 
with their undistracted labours, and kicked up his heels in 
a sullen rhythm. The result of his intimate observance of 
the policies of the ants was the conviction that life without 
tobacco was absurd : he must cut down his expenses in 
some other direction. 

What a fool he was ! Of course — why need he sleep in 
a bed, and in this beautiful weather too ? For the matter 
of food, if he couldn’t live on a shilling a day, he deserved 
to be written down a slave to his belly. He spurned the 
timid economies of the ant, and, rolling on his back again, 
crowed for very joy. Upon sober consideration he decided 
to avoid Barstow. His mother had been a native of that city, 
and he had relatives yet living in the neighbourhood. The 
chance of hospitality, which might have attracted some, he 
scorned as not playing the game. No; he would make for 
the less romantic town of Severncester, whither he would 
direct Mr. Pembridge to send his next quarter’s allowance. 

55 


Love with Honour 

For a few nights Mark was lucky in a choice of barns ; 
but he soon came to a land of more jealous homesteads, 
spruce and conscious of their prim utility. He slept under 
a hedge and caught cold. Then he began to economise on 
his food, already barely sufficient. He found it laid him 
open to unpleasant curiosity if he did not sleep where he 
supped, so he reduced himself to one meal at midday \ 
for the rest he carried cooked food with him and suffered 
the terror of the tin. As a result of his abstinence he 
reached a dangerous exaltation of mind and body, the first 
aberration of chronic hunger. After the initial rebellion of 
his organs he walked on air, deluded into an aggressive 
feeling of superiority. His apprehensions were so keen that 
he looked back upon full meals as an incredible grossness. 
With poorer blood he felt the cold, and sleep was so light 
that the borders of night and day were dissolved ; yesterday 
percolated into to-morrow, and there was no to-day. Mark 
became unable to disentangle real from imaginary experi- 
ence ; the veil between mind and body was worn so thin 
that he responded to the beckonings of illusion and dreamed 
upon his feet. 

He lay at sunset upon the hills above Bath while the city 
spelled out her beauty letter by letter in creeping lines of 
light. To Mark the contrasted glow of gas and electric 
lamps had a poignant meaning — the victory of soul over 
sense. He stared into the cup of jewels as into an 
alchemist’s bowl, where, warmed by the mysterious wells, 
nobler and baser contended. A drift of steam from the 
Great Western station was, for him, the vapour of sibylline 
springs. He counted out the lamps one against the other 
until his brain reeled ; the colours mixed and ran ; emerged, 

56 


Love with Honour 


now yellow ascendant, now blue. He was as the watcher 
over the destinies of the city and in a sense responsible, 
haggard with the foresight of her unanticipated warfare. 
He woke at intervals during the night and leaned over to 
mutter feverishly : — 

Blue still has it.” A sort of perversity kept Mark 
to the Roman road ; the name inspired him. He fol- 
lowed in the footsteps of Caesar, completing his material 
conquests with a crowning victory over the lower nature. 
Not only must men abandon their obvious vices, but they 
must be weaned from those indulgences that obscured the 
highest possible good. He was come to preach the gospel 
of bread, water, and the blue sky ; he pictured a common- 
wealth from which should be banished, not only flesh food 
and alcohol, but the doubtful blessings of tea and coffee. 
It was a trifle illogical that he never once thought of sup- 
pressing tobacco. 

Only a natural want of assertiveness kept Mark from 
crying aloud in market-places, and thus falling into the 
hands of the police. As it was, he attracted attention by 
talking to himself; and was more than once stoned by 
boys. His heightened sensibility took this as a natural per- 
secution ; he felt no resentment, it was but the expression 
of their flesh-fed brutality; and he stood regarding them 
with unembarrassed pity. 

Between Bath and Barstow he made his way across 
country till he struck the main road to Severncester. He 
began to get vague warnings from flouted nature : palpita- 
tion, a throbbing in his head, and a mind, incapable of 
thought, that desperately clung to place-names as to salva- 
tion. He seated himself by the roadside in the failing 

57 


Love with Honour 


light while half-a-dozen cart horses, gigantic against the 
sky, insolent in their strength, filed past with jingling traces. 
The men sat side-saddle with humped shoulders and clasped 
hands, their legs dangling, their faces toward him. He 
asked his way, more for human companionship than for 
information, and they mocked his accent. One, the last, 
relenting, leaned one hand on his horse’s crupper, and put- 
ting the other to his mouth, shouted back : — 

“To Pucklehurst by Caesar’s Camp.” 

“ Caesar’s Camp ! ” The name roused him like a trum- 
pet, and getting on his leaden feet, Mark urged forward. 
The melody of Danvers’s Morning Song, dormant in the 
chambers of his brain, sounded in his ears like trumpets. 
He marched under the high wall of a hidden garden, whis- 
tling defiantly. Faint voices floated over the wall. Mark 
whistled louder as if to assure them within of hope. After 
he had passed, a door in the wall opened and a girl looked 
out, shading her eyes from the sunset. Mark waved his 
hand back to her and passed on. He followed a murmuring 
stream, passed an Elizabethan farmhouse with crowded 
gables, ascended a hill, until beyond a hanging wood there 
loomed up on his left the dark mounds of Caesar’s Camp. 


58 


Chapter V 


S TANDING on the lawn of Charlcote House you 
were high-walled from the road, and even the 
sounds came over subdued by friendly ivy. There 
are sounds, too, that are a privacy in themselves, 
where passive silence would be too clear a background for 
jarring accidents ; and Charlcote was guarded on two sides 
by hushing water. That the road came between was not 
apparent from inside the wall ; the quiet insistence of the 
stream overcame the fugitive noises of the highway, return- 
ing after the shock with the consolation of a cradle song. 
By day there were added the monotonous churning of a 
decayed mill — the joy of landscape painters in its contin- 
ued existence — and the clank and frizzle of a wayside 
smithy. With certain winds was blown over the fields the 
fleeting thunder of a distant weir, supporting the other 
sounds like a ground bass. 

It is perhaps a fantastic idea that continuous sounds gen- 
erate an hypnotic influence, reacting upon human beings in 
such a way that freedom of will is impaired and the mind 
exposed more directly to the guidance of impulse and the 
suggestion of circumstances. One has noticed in millers a 
drowsed eye and bodily movements that reflect rather the 
slow compulsion of destiny than a voluntary putting of 
the hand to labour. One feels that they tend literally the 
mills of God ; and one has only to loiter away a summer 
afternoon in the shaken atmosphere of a mill to be aware 
of the paralyzing influence. Cathedral vergers, again, 
gradually succumb to the stupor of the bourdon ; eliciting 

59 


Love with Honour 


their veils with the calm certainty of the Fates. From 
whatever reason, it is certain that Charlcote had its own 
peculiar atmosphere, affecting a sensitive person as a species 
of enchantment. The garden was overhung by trees, the 
soil of an almost noxious richness. So many successive 
generations of plants had bloomed and added their substance 
to the earth, that it was a compost of departed summers. 
With the waxing year all the lush tangle steamed and fired 
into flower, and one suffered not only the present heaviness 
of rose fragrance, but the essence of roses that had bloomed 
and faded hung round until the air was thickened as with 
palpable otto. The crowded borders exhaled their breath 
only to receive it again as nourishment, so that the plants 
were fed from above as well as from below. Within the 
wall was as a giant still where the sun drew up the vola- 
tilised essences of flowers, condensed again with the cool 
of evening. 

The whole place suggested a harbour of refuge, a delib- 
erate evasion of the world 5 and it was quite in keeping 
that the inhabitants of Charlcote House were women — 
widow and daughter of an army officer — Captain Lionel 
Dampier. On his death, twenty years before the period 
of this story, Mrs. Dampier bought Charlcote House, then 
long empty, and under the neighbourly care of Major 
Alfred Vassall, her husband’s friend and executor, who 
lived in the same village, ceased to take any interest in the 
outside world except through and for her only child Laura. 

It was late evening in that month of the year which 
may truly be called regal. May is uncrowned, and across 
the front of July are blown the yellowing tokens of decay ; 
but in fortunate summers June holds a court of leisured 

60 


Love with Honour 


security where winds are forgotten, and the insidious feet 
of Time himself seem arrested as by a queen’s command. 
There is ardour, but of growth completed ; and pensiveness 
that is not yet melancholy. 

Major Vassall wiped the blade of his scythe, and leaned 
it against the wall with old maidenly or old soldierly care. 
He sniffed with somewhat fastidious enjoyment, the fine 
sensuality of the ascetic, the savour of the lawn grass, so 
entirely different in its sweetness from that of hay, and 
for a moment was with trooping ghosts. For, whenever 
lawns are mowed, whenever people herd together on grass, 
there is the same wistful odour. To some it suggests 
bands of music, to others school treats ; but the major 
was again fronting the hard-cut faces of his wonderful 
men. He had a little trick of brushing away nothing 
from before his face with his open hand ; nothing, that is, 
to the observer ; probably Major Vassall found the figment 
real enough. Mrs. Dampier wavered almost insensibly to 
where he stood. Her last few steps were quickened, as a 
child returning from the dark takes the bottom stairs with 
a run to escape the outstretched arms of night. Major 
Vassall was not very observant in matters relating to his 
own influence, or he would have noticed that he was to 
this woman as the protection of a lighted room 5 the sound 
of his voice a moral life belt. On Mrs. Dampier’s ap- 
proach his lean, brown face softened with a tenderness she 
knew was relative; she was the widow of his friend. His 
unconscious effort to veil memory behind a deliberate 
affection was to her bitterly apparent. After their simple 
greeting, ‘‘ Margaret,” “ Alfred,” they turned away their 
heads ; he proudly, she with a sigh of resignation, to listen 

61 


Love with Honour 

to the sound of the piano coming through the open 
window. 

“ I doubt if he would have cared for so much music,” 
said Mrs. Dampier at length. Major Vassall stiffened ; he 
resented the conscious allusion to that which for him was 
beyond words. Yet he answered courteously, — 

‘‘ If it were merely a trick, an accomplishment, I should 
be inclined to agree with you ; but Laura is entirely her- 
self when she plays — almost only when she plays. It is 
impossible to foresee everything 5 it must be an inheritance 
we overlooked.” Mrs. Dampier hesitated. 

“You don’t seem to take much interest in Laura for 
herself,” she said, with a rebellious impulse unusual in her. 
“ You are so absorbed in watching for inherited qualities 
that you miss what is taking place before your eyes. I 
can’t help thinking that what people are is of more conse- 
quence than what they ought to be according to some 
theory.” He crooked one eyebrow quizzically. 

“ Laura, as the child of her parents, may be trusted to give 
a good account of herself. Our business is not to interfere.” 

“Yes, yes,” she answered impatiently, “ but you don’t 
consider the influence of surroundings — of other people; 
or rather, you don’t allow it.” 

Major Vassall was incapable of concealment. He 
thought and spoke more definitely than she had intended. 

“ Mrs. Arkell, you mean ? ” 

“ As you know,” she answered evasively, “ I don’t like 
Mrs. Arkell personally, but I recognise that she is the only 
person of our acquaintance who can give Laura the social 
opportunities she needs. Mrs. Arkell is a silly woman, 
but she is harmless, and you may be quite sure that Laura 
62 


Love with Honour 


will meet nobody at her house who is not quite nice.” 
Major Vassall made a wry face. 

“ Tm sure you are making a great mistake, Alfred,” said 
Mrs. Dampier, irritably. “ The mere fact of what you say, 
that Laura is only happy at the piano, proves that she is 
becoming morbid for want of society. She needs some- 
thing more than a tradition ; girls are not moulded by 
memories, but by the people they come in contact with. 
There is a danger in that you don’t appear to see ; some 
day, when you are unable to prevent it, Laura may come 
under the wrong influence.” She drew a long breath. “ I 
would not give much for a tradition against a living per- 
son,” she said scornfully. 

“ Laura will always be a Dampier,” he answered stiffly ; 
“ however, what is the particular occasion ? ” She did not 
pretend to misunderstand him. 

“ Mrs. Arkell has asked us to dinner on the seventeenth ; 
Sir Francis will be there.” 

“You have accepted? ” he asked coldly. 

“ I should do nothing without consulting you.” 

“ I don’t see how you can go ; you can’t dine ’em, you 
know,” he said feebly. 

“That, of course, is not necessary.” Major Vassall 
kicked the grass edging almost pettishly. He was as 
touchy as a woman in certain matters. 

“Don’t you see what it means?” he said. “Miss 
Dampier is trotted out that Sir Francis may see she knows 
how to do her hair and drink her soup. Now I don’t like 
that ; as I said, Laura is Dampier’s daughter.” Long 
habit rather than a natural humility kept Mrs. Dampier 
from resenting the unintended implication of his remarks. 

63 


Love with Honour 


Of course it’s friendly of ’em, very friendly,” contin- 
ued Major Vassall. Please don’t think me selfish ; it is 
really none of my business. I am speaking as I should 
regard the matter were Laura my daughter.” An observer 
would have seen the retort in Mrs. Dampier’s eyes that the 
relation might still be accomplished if he chose; Major 
Vassall saw nothing. 

‘‘ Then you think we should not go ? ” 

“ I hardly know what to say. Of course Laura ought 
to take her proper place in the county, but I can’t say I 
like this particular opening. Does she want to go ? ” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Dampier, bitterly, ‘‘ I think she would 
rather not.” 

“ Then certainly I should decline.” 

“ I am afraid the Arkells will be offended,” said Mrs. 
Dampier, drifting back to his side, mentally as well as 
physically. 

“ Oh no,” said the major, grimly, “ not with you. 
They’ll see my hand in it ; as a rule, they see my hand in 
anything unpleasant. By the way,” he continued, “ please 
don’t allow Laura to know that you have discussed the 
matter with me. I should be sorry for her to suppose even 
her name hawked about in this way.” They turned and 
walked up and down the lawn in silence, listening to 
Laura’s playing. 

“ You don’t object to Cuthbert coming here so much, 
do you ? ” said Mrs. Dampier, presently. The major 
waited a few seconds before answering. 

No,” he said, “ I think he’s all right at bottom. He 
is going through a most unpleasant stage just now ; really, 
the hobbledehoy period of the modern young man is worse 

64 


Love with Honour 


than the Byronism of our day ; but he’ll grow out of it, as 
we did.” 

“ You must admit that these interests keep men out of 
coarse dissipation.” Major Vassall turned round and 
looked at her thoughtfully. 

“M — yes; but it is still dissipation,” he said. “I 
have no patience with the wild oats theory, — you know 
how Dampier and I stood out against that, — but it was at 
least masculine and true to the national type. I mistrust 
all this,” — he hesitated for the right word, — “this art fur- 
niture business ; it makes men too careful of their skins. 
Of course Cuthbert is the only son of his mother. 
Heaven,” said the major, piously, “ preserve me from the 
middle-aged woman of culture.” 

“ Then,” persisted Mrs. Dampier, “ you don’t like his 
coming here ? ” 

“To tell you the truth,” said Major Vassall, “I don’t 
think it is of much consequence one way or the other. 
For some reasons I think it might be encouraged ; Laura 
likes Cuthbert, and he is a companion for her of her own 
age.” He chuckled. “ She may help to make a man of 
him.” 

“ Has it never struck you,” said Mrs. Dampier, “ that since 
Cuthbert is almost the only man Laura sees, it would be a 
perfectly natural consequence if she fell in love with him ? ” 

“ Oh, you women ! ” he laughed. “ Perfectly natural if 
Laura were the average girl ; but she is not. In any case, 
she may safely be trusted to choose for herself ; she is true 
to the breed.” Mrs. Dampier felt the unconscious irony 
of his words ; his approval of her husband’s choice was 
singularly tepid. 


F 


65 


Love with Honour 

‘‘For my part,” she said, “I doubt if Laura could do 
better.” 

“ She’s Dampier’s daughter,” he answered bluntly. 

“You expect too much,” said Mrs. Dampier. “We 
know Cuthbert, there is nothing against him. He is Sir 
Francis’s heir, and Bearswood is a good property.” 

“ If he were the man his father was.” 

“ Then you have considered the possibility ? ” 

“ I have observed nothing that leads me to suppose any- 
thing more than a friendship with which I see no reason 
to interfere,” he replied j adding, “ it is natural that you 
should be unduly anxious.” 

The music within ended, putting a period to their con- 
versation. Mrs. Dampier and Major Vassall instinctively 
turned their faces to the door. 

Laura crossed the lawn swiftly ; she was tall and fully 
formed, and her presence had a singular vitality. On her 
approach Major Vassall unconsciously straightened himself, 
smiling at the air of protection with which Laura put a 
shawl round her mother’s shoulders. 

“ I am sorry, mother,” she said, in a deep, slightly drag- 
ging voice, “ I did not notice how long I had been playing. 
You are cold ; let us walk up and down.” She linked 
arms with the other two and set the pace of their going. 

“ I don’t much care for roses,” she said presently, apro- 
pos of nothing ; “ they’re a Philistine flower when you 
come to consider. Of course I love them because they’re 
beautiful, but,” she knitted her brows in the endeavour to 
be precise, “ there’s a pious convention, a sort of constitu- 
tion, bible, and beer privilege, given to the rose. I dislike 
affectation about anything beautiful j it degrades it. I 
66 


Love loiili Honour 


remember when I was quite a little thing Miss Anderson 
told me I should not admire tulips. She gave me to under- 
stand that the tulip was not a proper example to little girls, 
‘ flaunting,’ I think she called it. Of course she was 
wrong ; there’s backbone, ‘ drawing,’ as Cuthbert would 
say, in a tulip. Miss Anderson recommended the daisy.” 

“Very charming flower,” said Major Vassall. 

“ Yes, but spoiled by being held up as an example. I 
shall always quarrel with Chaucer for his preference. It’s a 
stupid, niggling little thing, it reminds me of the Brennan 
children; well-behaved, round-eyed, and always saying ‘yes, 
please,’ for more bread and butter. You never saw a daisy 
with jam on its pinafore.” 

“You’re fanciful,” said Mrs. Dampier, uneasily. She 
was a little shy of any discussion that reached beyond the 
spoken words. 

“ No, mother,” said Laura, earnestly, “ these things are 
very real. Look at the gestures of trees, so entirely their 
own ; the larch is always saying ‘ Come up higher, ’ and 
the cedar ‘ Peace, peace.’ ” She spread out her hands in 
illustration. “ When I die I want to lie under cedars.” 

“I’m content to live with ’em,” said Major Vassall, 
grimly. 

“Yes,” said Laura, scornfully, “and destroy their in- 
dividuality so that they might have come out of Noah’s 
Ark.” 

“ The modern cry, the modern cry,” murmured Major 
Vassall, “ ‘ let me be myself.’ ” 

“ Not a bit ; if you go into an old garden, a very old 
garden, I mean, you will find hollyhocks precisely where 
hollyhocks ought to be because they are hollyhocks. I 

67 


Love with Honour 


believe you have only two ideas, height, and contrasts in 
complementary colour.” 

‘‘Well, didn’t I arrange my round bed of annuals very 
nicely — proper harmonies and all that ? I spent hours 
over it, looked up all sorts of complicated colour diagrams.” 

“ It’s all right so far as it goes, but you have to remember 
that a flower is something more than a bit of colour. If I 
were a flower, I should strongly object to being placed in a 
particular spot simply because I was blue and my neighbour 
yellow. Besides annuals, pretty as they are, are not entirely 
satisfactory, they’re parvenus.” 

Major Vassall laughed, the musical though slightly nasal 
laugh of the disappointed man. 

“ I’d like that explained,” he said. 

“ Don’t you see that they have no dreams to sell ? — no 
traditions, as it were. Who cares for a patch of Nemophila 
if it fails ? Now a lily is always a lily even if it comes to 
grief. You think of its possibilities, of its inherited rights. 
It’s hard to define, like the difference between a viola and a 
pansy; violas are very beautiful, but the pansy has traditions.” 

“ Due to its name and Shakespeare.” 

“ No, not entirely ; and there’s a great deal of cant about 
the names of flowers. I think it’s because our grandfathers 
were so terribly long-winded ; consequently it’s the fashion 
now to call everything by its simplest name, which is not 
always the best. Mrs. Arkell shuddered when I said marsh 
marigolds, and implored me to call them kingcups, ‘ these 
homely names are so much sweeter, don’t you know.’ 
Kingcups does happen to sound well, but I prefer marigold, 
‘ Marygold.’ It’s more suggestive. Then iris is better 
than flag.” 


68 


Love loitli Honour 


“ It doesn’t really make any difference,” said Major 
Vassall, “ and it is unwise to attach so much importance to 
mere names; it tends to confusion of thought.” 

“ But it’s as real as the difference between Monday and 
Tuesday,” protested Laura. “Of course, there are people 
to whom one day is like another, ‘ a section of infinite 
time.’ Nevertheless, Tuesday is quite different from Mon- 
day or Wednesday — it’s a different colour.” 

“ I wish you wouldn’t talk in that morbid way, Laura,” 
said Mrs. Dampier, peevishly. “ Why can’t you be con- 
tent to take things as they are ? ” They loitered about the 
lawn in silence until Major Vassall’s thoughts, and finally 
his words, quickened them. He began to talk about the 
coming election. 

“ I don’t know how things are going,” he said. “ Arkell 
is quite sound, but he has never had any training. Conse- 
quently he misses the doubtful votes. I think he is certain 
of a majority because people are, after all, loyal. I should 
like him to ride in on a stronger horse than loyalty ; this 
time it will serve, but I doubt the future.” 

“ Why the future ? ” asked Laura. 

“ Because people read more.” 

“ Not a very high compliment to the party if increased 
knowledge is likely to shake their loyalty.” 

“ Reading does not imply increased knowledge but relaxed 
discipline. The older people don’t pretend to think and 
will vote solid ; but the others, who have learned to read, 
worse than that, to discuss, will try to think for themselves. 
This leaves them to the mercy of the candidate with the 
stronger methods. Now method is not born in a man ; it 
is a matter of habit, and it is nearly impossible for a man to 

69 


Love with Honour 


acquire sound methods who has not been trained in some 
profession. But I bore you.’' 

“ No : I want to have it made clear,” said Mrs. Dampier, 
hastily. Clearaess, tangible outlines ; what a refuge from 
ghosts ! They had settled into a steady walk up and down 
the lawn, with a quick “ right about turn ” at either end. 

“You see Arkell, good man as he is, does not under- 
stand the campaign. Campaign,” repeated the major. 
“ I like that word ; it exactly expresses the idea. It is a 
campaign, not against the other man, but against ignorance. 
The ignorance of a faithful animal in the case of the older 
people — for a single question will settle the way they vote, 
and a more pernicious form of ignorance among those who 
fancy that they think. One may consider that the former 
are entrenched behind their prejudices, and a wise man 
will leave them alone. The true art of political warfare 
is in the treatment of the increasing number of so-called 
intelligent electors.” 

They had broken apart into a triangle at the end of the 
lawn; it was nearly dark under the high wall, and their 
white faces peered nakedly out of the dusk, whatever in- 
dividuality they had focussed upon them. An hour had 
passed almost without knowledge; light had faded, sounds 
died away, and they were left, only themselves, a little 
startled by the silence that, with renewed consciousness, 
seemed to have come suddenly. The wistful odour of the 
grass had staled to something deathlike ; they were very 
alone. Mrs. Dampier shook with the blurring of a moth 
at her ear, and drew closer to her daughter as if to warm 
herself with younger blood. Major Vassall spoke to them 
anxiously, his thin dry voice rising to an appeal. 

70 


Love with Honour 

‘‘ They have never learned the grand lesson of all gov- 
ernment, that the individual must renounce for the general 
body. It is a lesson that is only learned through discipline ; 
and these people, from the time they leave school, have no 
discipline. Unless people are made to believe that a man 
must act so, not because it is pleasant or convenient, but 
for the honour of the regiment, there is a bitter future for 
this country.” 

Whilst he was speaking there came over the wall the 
sound of whistling, the notes falling sharp on the stillness 
like the beating of rain. The major lifted his hand, his 
head a little to one side. 

“ Listen,” he said, “ that’s fine ; there’s heart in that.” 
But Laura’s eyes were fixed on her mother’s face. Mrs. 
Dampier stood in an attitude of strained attention, her head 
thrust forward, her hands half raised, with the fingers 
sharply crooked like the claws of a bird. It was only for 
a moment; then her figure relaxed, and she spoke with 
nervous gaiety. 

“ I thought he was coming in,” she said, laughing 
foolishly, ‘‘ to put us all through our facings.” 

They turned to go indoors ; Laura waited. 

“ Come, child,” said Mrs. Dampier, fretfully. 

“ In a minute, mother,” cried the girl. She walked 
to the door in the wall and looked out. At the same 
moment Mark turned and, without thought, waved his 
hand. Mrs. Dampier, in her equation of tradition against a 
living person, forgot to consider that chance is a third and 
disturbing factor. 


71 


Chapter VI 


M ark awoke under the cross-fire of three pairs 
of round, gentle eyes. Close against his 
right elbow, so near that she breathed 
almost upon his cheek, knelt a little girl 
about eight years old ; another faced her on the left ; whilst 
a third, if anything more solemn than her companions, 
squatted at his feet. They were dressed alike in lilac 
print frocks and sunbonnets, and their faces were newly 
burnished with soap and water. They looked him over 
carefully and without any embarrassment, she at his feet 
remarking, disappointedly : — 

“• Hur baint a deader.” 

Mark lay flat on his back, his body chill and cramped, 
his head aching. He was at the bottom of a giant trench, 
sweeping away from his feet in a long curve like that of a 
railway cutting. The bank on either side was clothed 
with heather, bracken, and brambles, the crest of the ridge 
afire with gorse. Immediately over his head leaned a small 
oak, one of a cluster vevidently self-sown from the wood 
behind, whence came the thin sighing of larches Mark at 
first mistook for the sound of water. The upper branches 
of the oaks already gleamed golden in full sunlight, though 
the trench was not yet warmed. The manner of his awak- 
ening was just beyond surprising, so Mark kept quiet and 
accepted the three children as a premeditated and not un- 
pleasing form of pastoral spectacle. It seemed such a long 
time since yesterday that he was another person and his 
mind unequal to any sort of speculation. He supposed 

72 


Love with Honour 


that he had been impressed into the performance, and 
awaited his cue. The child at his feet asked earnestly : — 

“ Mister, what have ’ee got in that bag ? ” Mark 
answered, according to the staging : — 

‘‘ Hope and fear and joy and sorrow.” 

Do ’ee sell um ? ” said she, unabashed. IVe got a 
ha’penny.” 

“ That depends ; what’s your name ? ” 

“ Mary Meshach.” 

‘‘ And mine is Sarah Shadrach,” advanced the child on 
his left. Mark rubbed his eyes and was on the edge of an 
exclamation ; but when the third piped shrilly, And mine 
is Annie Abednego,” he took the information with proper 
gravity. He sat up stiffly and bowed from the waist. 

“ Who gave you these names ? ” he pursued, settling 
himself again. 

“ Mister Cuthbertarkle what wears the striped stockings 
and says ‘ perfectly,’ ” they chimed in chorus. 

‘‘ All of us belongs wi’ Mother Elizabeth,” chanted one. 

But she baint our proper mother,” said another. 

‘‘ You mustn’t say that,” objected Mary Meshach, “ be- 
cause nobody knows our proper mother.” 

‘‘ She’s what they do call a fossil mother.” 

“ No, silly ; them ’s what you do find down to Austin, 
where the Alabaster is.” 

‘^Foster mother,” said Mary, with a little bridling air of 
superiority. They looked at one another with the simul- 
taneous impulse of children. 

We come,” they breathed fearfully, “ from the work’us, 
but we must never talk about it and forget it so hard as 
ever we can.” 


73 


Love with Honour 


They shut their eyes and forgot with all their might. 

“ The subject shall never be mentioned between us,” 
said Mark, politely. 

“ Be you the traveller ? ” said Mary. 

“ What traveller ? ” 

“ Him in the spelling book; t-r-a-v, trav, e-1, el, 1-e-r, ler, 
traveller; with a pack on his back, and a stick and a hill, 
with the sun all picked out like a fan. Fm a traveller, 
too, and I want to get over the hill.” The others giggled 
as at a common jest. 

“ She’s always going journeys,” said Annie ; ‘‘ she’ll sit 
on a stump for hours, with a bag of hammy sandwiches, 
going to America or Spain, or Barstow.” 

“You delightful kid,” laughed Mark; “yes, Fm the 
traveller.” 

“ But have ’ee really and truly got all them things in the 
bag?” 

“ Really and truly,” Mark assured her. 

“ I wish ’ee’d show us,” begged Annie. 

“ That’s rude,” said Sarah ; “ what’s your name. Mister ? ” 

“ Mark,” replied he, feeling that the Christian name was 
the only one credible under the circumstances. 

“ Oh, I know — 

“ ‘ Matthew, Mark, Luke ’n’ John, 

Guard the bed that I lay on,’ ” 

chanted Annie, gaily. 

“ Children, children,” came in a clear voice over the 
ridge, “ breakfast is all ready, and Fve put the porridge 
out.” 

Mark looked up. On the crest of the bank, silhouetted 
74 


Love with Honour 

against the sky, stood a tall, dark woman. She, like the 
children, was dressed in print and wore a sunbonnet. 

“We’ve found a man,” cried the three in unison. The 
woman descended the bank and stood beside them. She was 
middle-aged, with handsome features, a stern yet kindly 
mouth, and eyes unspeakably sad. She looked at Mark first 
with some displeasure, quickly changing to tenderness. “ Be 
you ill ? ” she said concernedly, with the rich Severnshire 
drawl. 

“ Oh, no; Pm all right, thank you,” said Mark. He got 
stiffly upon his feet, lurched, and sat down again with 
humiliating suddenness. 

“ Pm a little cramped, that’s all,” he said, with a laugh. 
The children huddled together like rabbits, gaping with fear. 
The woman eyed him critically. 

“You’d best come and get some breakfast,” she said 
shortly. “ Run along, children.” 

“ Hur’s called Mark,” ventured Annie, taking her finger 
out of her mouth. 

“ Don’t bother the gentleman, dear, he’s not very well,” 
said the woman, ascending the slope. Two of the children 
ran up ahead, turning on the crest to gaze back shyly at 
Mark, who followed with difficulty. Now that he was on 
his legs they felt the distance between them ; on their own 
level he was only as another child. Mary lagged soberly 
behind, too exalted for words, since Mark had given her his 
bag to carry. Over the bank they were upon a shallow, 
circular plain, covered with fine yellow grass, here and there 
cushioned with mole-hills, now overgrown. Two ridges, a 
deep fosse between, encircled the place, the whole being 
about eight acres in extent. The greater part of the Camp 

75 


Love with Honour 


was surrounded by fairly open country, an arc of a third 
only being closed in by a darkling wood descending rapidly, 
and separated from the Camp by a low, broken stone wall. 
The wood, now on the left, was chiefly of larch and Scotch 
fir intermingled with dwarf oak, holly, and overhanging the 
wall a group of chestnuts. Between the branches of the 
trees Mark could see far below a level sweep of wooded 
country, faintly discerned through the morning mist. 

“ That’s my cottage yonder,” said the woman, pointing 
to a little house at the extremity of the wood. “ Fm called 
Mrs. Winscombe.” 

Mark told her his name, adding, ‘‘I must have walked 
rather too far yesterday, and as it was late when I reached 
here I didn’t bother about any supper.” 

He felt very giddy, but disliked showing weakness. 
Mrs. Winscombe smiled to herself at his explanation, but 
only observed, “ I shall take it very kindly if you will break- 
fast with us.” 

They skirted the wood until they reached a rude stile 
made of a stout stone slab set on edge. Over it, they 
entered a wicket, giving on an unevenly flagged garden 
pathway. To the left a headlong track went down through 
the wood. The cottage was long and low, the roof — of 
the red, fluted tiles common to the district — hardly show- 
ing through masses of jasmine and climbing roses. The 
kitchen was fairly large, with a low ceiling and sanded floor. 
The table was laid for breakfast : four plates of porridge, a 
home-baked loaf, a jug of milk, and a jar of honey. 

Mrs. Winscombe pointed to a wooden rocking-chair by 
the fire. “You’d best sit here and drink tea,” she said, 
putting down the kettle; “ ’twill take away the sickness and 

76 


Love with Honour 

give you an appetite. I’ll get the children off to school ; 
and then you can eat with me at leisure.” 

Mary lagged without. 

“ Come in to breakfast, dearie,” called Mrs. Winscombe. 
As the child did not appear, she went out and returned, 
leading her by the hand. Mark already noticed in her 
manner toward Mary a special tenderness, checked as by 
principles of impartiality. Mary had slung the satchel 
over her shoulders, and held, half hidden behind her, a 
pocket-handkerchief, made like a bundle, and containing 
scraps of bracken. Her eyes were heavy with some childish 
trouble. Mrs. Winscombe stooped to untie her bonnet 
strings. 

“ What is it, my child ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ I wish I had hopenfear in my bundle instead of only 
sandwiches and lemonade,” said Mary, in a dolorous out- 
burst. 

Mrs. Winscombe shook her head warningly at Mark. 

“ Please don’t laugh at her,” she murmured, turning to 
stir the fire. 

‘‘ I dare say the gentleman will let you play with his bag 
when you come in from school.” Mark promised readily, 
and Mary was consoled. The children said a short ‘‘ grace ” 
with a fierce devotion that at any other time would have 
amused Mark, and climbing on their stools, became forgetful 
of everything but porridge. Six weeks of picnic and 
snatched meals in frowsy taverns lifted the breakfast by 
contrast into an exquisite rite. The tablecloth, though 
coarse and darned, was white and sweet with lavender ; and 
in the midst there burned a great bowl of crimson roses. 
To Mark’s senses, refined by abstinence, the simplicity of 

77 


Love with Honour 


the food appealed with poignancy — milk, honey, and cottage 
bread — abstract food. Leisureliness at the table, too, was 
a forgotten charm recalling his own childhood. A wide 
latticed window, laced with honeysuckle, gave on the level 
camp, allowing a glimpse and air of wild sweetness. At 
length the impatient jangling of a distant bell caused the 
children to jump from their stools, Mrs. Winscombe beg- 
ging Mark to excuse their haste. Satchels and bonnets 
were grabbed, and the youngsters clattered off, eager to tell 
the world of their morning’s discovery. Mrs. Winscombe 
went with them to the head of the woodland path, and 
returned with an absent look, and one hand nervously 
clutching the bosom of her dress. She moved about the 
kitchen in silence for a few minutes, setting the table in 
order. When the meal was ready she placed a chair for 
Mark, and seated herself with simple good breeding. 

“You perhaps thought me rude looking at you as I did,” 
she said, referring to their first meeting j “ but I can’t abear 
the children to speak to anybody out of my sight. I dread 
every time they go to school, and I sometimes doubt whether 
I ought not to teach them here. Do you think that they 
are old enough to go alone ? ” She put the question so 
earnestly that Mark smiled. 

“You remember the proverb about children, drunken 
men, and fools ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ; so far as what may be called accidents are 
concerned that may be true ; but there’s a host of other 
things. A bad word, a wrong look, may influence a child’s 
future more than a body would believe. You have to be 
always watchful. If one of them got run over, it would be 
dreadful ; but I think I should be more grieved to know 

78 


Love with Honour 

that a wicked person had said or done something that would 
poison their lives as they grew up.” 

“ I think that average people, though they are not very 
good, have a sort of respect for children.” 

“ ’Tisn’t the evil done thinkingly, but such as cruelty to 
an animal, or a lie. That’s what I fear. Some children 
don’t take any harm, but ’tis hard to understand their ways. 
There’s Mary : you cannot speak a careless word in her 
presence but it sinks in like a seed. The others are not 
so difficult ; they have less imagination. It does them good 
sometimes to beat their hands, but I never beat Mary ; 
people say it is unfair, but they do not know ; I punish her 
in some other way.” 

Mark wanted to explain his circumstances, but hesitated 
how to begin.” 

You live here alone ? ” he asked. 

“Yes, I am a widow woman; I never had a child of my 
own, these are trusted to me by the guardians of the parish 
until they are old enough to work for themselves. I would 
like them always to feel as if they were my own children.” 
She spoke nervously, as one apologising for a weakness. 
“ I do not wish them to remember that they came from the 
House ; nobody ever speaks to them about it. If the 
children taunted them at school I should take them away.” 

“ I think they are very fortunate,” said Mark. She 
flushed and looked pained. 

“ Please do not say that. It is entirely a selfishness in me ; 
they are, as you may say, my hobby. Besides, I am paid for 
taking care of them — four shillings a week for each child. 
You must not think,” she added earnestly, “that other 
people are not kind to children. It is because I fancy 

79 


Love with Honour 


trouble ; I suppose I am made so that I worry about their 
minds. I think perhaps that people do not know how tender 
they are and how easily they can be made to grow crooked.” 

Mark hoped Mrs. Winscombe would question him about 
himself, but she continued her work in a quiet, unem- 
barrassed way, accepting his presence as a matter of course. 
At last he said bluntly : — 

“ I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness to me ; 
I must be going on now. How far is it to Severncester ? ” 
Severncester ? ” echoed Mrs. Winscombe, “ I hope you 
won’t think of walking there to-day ; you are not lit.” 

“ But — ” began Mark. Mrs. Winscombe put down the 
cup she had been drying and came over to where he sat, 
saying, “ I believe you won’t be vexed if I say what I have 
been thinking.” 

“ No, indeed.” 

“ I think you are short of money,” she said, simply. 

Mark laughed and coloured. 

“ There, I have vexed you. But else, why should you 
sleep out of doors ? And when you said you had had no 
supper that was only part of the truth; you have been 
hungry for some days. I have known hunger, and I can 
tell.” Her frankness made it easy for Mark to speak. 

“ I’ll tell you exactly how I am fixed. I am for the 
moment very hard up. In three days I shall have some 
money, but I must go to Severncester to get it ; the letter 
will be addressed to me there.” 

“ Couldn’t you have it sent here ? ” 

“ But I must not think of imposing upon your kindness.” 
That is nothing,” said Mrs. Winscombe. “ I am very 
thankful the children found you, because I don’t think 

8o 


Love with Honour 


you are over careful of yourself, and you would soon 
have been very ill. I can’t give you a bed, but my 
brother, who lives on the other side of the Camp, has a 
room to spare. He will be very glad of your company; he 
lives quite by himself, though he comes here to dinner. 
For a while he lived with me, but it was not convenient ; 
because, although my brother is very fond of children and 
is never tired of watching them at play, they interfere 
with his work; they do not understand. My brother is 
an artist.” 

“ Does he paint landscape ? ” said Mark, for something 
to say. 

“Oh, no; he does not paint pictures at all. He 
makes beautiful things of all kinds, cabinets, work- 
boxes, jardinieres — a many things. He also mends clocks 
and watches and paints on china. I have heard it said 
that my brother can take a bit of wood and with a 
chisel and some paint make it almost priceless. His 
name is Joseph Ainger. We will go over and see him 
directly I have put my crockery away.” 

“ But are you sure I shall not be in his way ? ” said 
Mark, alarmed by the extent of Ainger’s industry. 

“ No, he will understand. He will be pleased to have 
some one to sit and talk with in the evening. I shall 
be glad too, because then he will drink less ale. My 
brother is not a drunkard, but he sometimes drinks more 
ale than is good for him. He is very fond of talking, 
but there are few he can get to listen to him.” 

As they approached Ainger’s cottage, Mark saw that 
it was mainly a workshop, low and glazed the whole 
length of one side. It stood in what had once been 


Love with Honour 

a garden, but was now a vague patch of colour, irreg- 
ularly framed in the encroaching gorse and bracken of 
the Camp. Annuals of two or three sorts, sweet-peas, 
poppies, and corn-flowers had been sown broadcast to form 
sheets of colour, and left untended. Here and there, 
propped against the wall of the workshop or emerging 
from a sea of blossom, were fragments of old grey stone- 
work: a trefoil from a window, the broken capitals of 
pillars and contorted gargoyles. Inside, Mark was struck 
by the resemblance to the studios of mediaeval painters. 
There was the same compromise between art and handi- 
craft ; a carpenter’s bench was littered with pots of 
paint, mostly in the dry state, flasks of oil, scraps of 
stained glass, and broken tiles. A large slab and muller 
stood on a table in one corner, a foot lathe in another. 
An elderly man was seated at a sloping desk painting 
on a tile. He did not look round as they entered; not 
until they stood beside him did he turn to Mark the 
high, bland forehead, the pink and white cheeks of a 
child. His eyes were very blue, his face absolutely 
hairless; only an unusual fulness of the under lids gave 
him the appearance of age. 

“ Joseph, this is Mr. Surtees,” said Mrs. Winscombe ; 
“ he is in want of a lodging for a few days.” 

‘‘Yes, yes,” said the old man, gently, in a slightly 
tremulous voice, and nodding his head, “of course he is 
very welcome.” He pointed to his work, a blackbird in 
full song sitting on a spray of hawthorn. 

“ That is the way a blackbird sits when he sings,” he 
said with a chuckle ; “ it took me a very long time to 
see exactly how the little rogue set his feet and held his 
82 


Love with Honour 


head.” Bird and blossom were painted with the frugal 
realism of a Japanese screen. Joseph took up the tile. 

‘^This is for the side of a jardineer,” he said, pointing 
with his brush to where the wooden framework stood on 
the bench. ‘‘ My work throughout : look at the joints — 
that is how joints should be made; it will last a hun- 
dred years.” 

“ It is very beautiful,” said Mark. 

‘‘ It is right. When I paint a bird you may be sure 
that every feather is quite right.” 

‘‘ I will leave you together,” said Mrs. Winscombe ; 
“ Joseph will bring you over to dinner at half-past 
twelve.” The old fellow took up his brush with child- 
like preoccupation; every touch appeared to give him 
keen enjoyment. 

“In a humble way I too am an artist,” said Mark. 
“ I am a photographer.” 

“ Yes — indeed ? ” observed the other politely, but clearly 
without much interest. “You couldn’t photograph this, 
you know,” he said presently, holding up the bird ; “ for 
one thing, I doubt if he would let you come close enough.” 

“ No,” admitted Mark, “ and then again you lose the 
colour in a photograph.” 

“ Aha,” chuckled Joseph, “ yes, yes, that’s it, it’s the 
colour. ’Tisn’t everybody can see colour; it is meat 
and drink to me.” 

With a little cunning leer he pulled out a drawer 
under his desk. 

“ Look here,” he whispered, “ here’s colour ! ” 

The drawer contained a quantity of broken glass, choice 
fragments from a window, apparently of great age. 

83 


Love with Honour 

“ Would you believe/’ he laughed softly, ‘‘ when they 
restored the church yonder, they took out the old windows 
and put in the new ones by a London firm. They cost a 
thousand sovereigns. Abraham and Isaac, and Joseph in 
the Pit ; all done in washed-out reds, and dirty greens and 
browns. This is some of the old stuff. I took it. Ah, 
yes — colour.” He fingered the pieces like a miser, lifting 
a handful and letting it fall, bit by bit, jingling into the 
drawer. He held his head on one side with his mouth 
pursed up. 

‘‘When I am tired I sit and play with these. You 
wouldn’t believe how much I learn from them j accidental 
contrasts like a kallydiscope. Very valuable.” He shook 
his head sagely. “ Have you seen the church yet ? ” 

“ No, not yet.” 

“Well, when you go in look at the panels in the chancel 
roof. I did them, in stencil ; they are very beautiful.” 

“ Do you have any assistance here ? ” asked Mark. 

“Yes, sometimes when the work is large — a cupboard, 
say. Then I arrange with the carpenter. But I don’t like 
workmen, they are careless and always in a hurry; they 
upset things and waste good nails.” 

Mark wandered about the workshop, finding something 
beautiful or quaint at every turn. Signboards — some old 
and apparently forgotten, others in course of painting ; 
here the richly carved lid of an antique chest torn from its 
hinges and with a new piece let in, only discernible by 
its colour, there a huge Chinese vase wired and clamped 
together with wood. 

“My colours are the best that can be got,” put in 
Ainger; “when I paint you need not be afraid of the 
84 


Love with Honour 

colours changing. Some buy their paints ready mixed, but 
I get mine dry, quite pure, and I see that my oils are the 
best too. Yes, you may be sure of my colours.’’ 

“ You have come a journey ? ” he asked presently, more 
from courtesy than a v^ish to know. 

“Yes, I have walked from London.” 

“ London ? Ah, yes ; I was in London once. I have 
seen the pictures by a gentleman named Turner. I think 
he is dead now. Ah,” he closed his eyes luxuriously, “ he 
knew how to use his colours, if you like. But he was not 
careful to get them pure ; I expect he did not pay a good 
price for them. That was a great mistake ; he should have 
paid more and charged it to his customers in the bill. 
People do not grudge paying a little more for what will 
last.” 

“ Were you in London for long ? ” 

“ Only for three days. I meant to have stayed a week, 
but I disliked the noise and the hurry.” 

“ I like the London ale,” he continued presently, stoop- 
ing over his work, “ but they do not know how to fry pota- 
toes in London.” He painted in silence for a few minutes. 
“ But that was fifteen years ago. Perhaps they have 
learned now ; there’s a many people go up from the coun- 
try who would teach them. They should be turned out 
the shape of the pan,” he continued earnestly, “ brown all 
over the colour of a medlar, but not black, and with just 
enough dripping to hold together. Did you notice when 
you were in London ? ” 

“ No,” laughed Mark, “ I don’t remember that I thought 
about it.” 

“ That was a pity. I am very fond of fried potatoes. 

85 


Love with Honour 


But perhaps you had other things to think about,” he added 
politely. 

A slight sound caused Mark to turn his head. Framed 
in the doorway, a lilac shadow against the hot reds and yel- 
lows of the sunlit flowers, stood a young girl. She had 
come so quietly that for a moment Mark stared at her with- 
out appreciating her reality. She was as motion suddenly 
stayed and so become visible ; one would have said that she 
had alighted. Her eyes were too earnest for dreaminess, 
yet somewhat brooding, and she looked a little from under 
her brows ; her lips, now compressed with a sensitive grav- 
ity, were full and soft, redeemed from weakness by the fine 
set of their corners. Mark did not recognise her; and she, 
after a first displeased memory, tried and absolved him by 
some finer intuition. Thus, though it was but a matter of 
seconds, they had a silent communion. Mark was about 
to speak ; but she, flushing ever so little, came forward. 

“ Why, it’s Miss Laura,” cried Ainger, in a tone of great 
pleasure ; “ come in. Miss Laura.” Mark noted how the 
girl’s presence told where his had been ignored until he spoke. 

“ Good morning, Joseph,” said the girl, “ I have brought 
you the poppies. See, this is right, is it not ? I would 
have come earlier,' but my mother was not very well.” 

Her voice awoke the unshaped memories of dreams ; 
there was a slight stammer at the beginning of a sentence, 
a dwelling on the word that pleased her. In after years 
Mark found himself imitating the inflection of her “ earlier.” 

“ That’s right. Miss Laura, that is the one I want,” said 
Ainger ; “ you never make a mistake. Miss Laura, this is 
— what did you say your name was, sir ? — Mr. Surtees, a 
friend of mine.” 


86 


Love with Honour 


Mark bowed awkwardly; the girl’s acknowledgement 
was a reserve in itself. 

“ Now,” said Ainger, picking over the flowers eagerly, 
‘‘ you don’t get that shade of purple in anything else except 
perhaps in some hollyhocks. I have seen something like 
it in pansies and bumblebees, but the one is more violet, 
the other browner. If I had to give it a name 1 should 
call it purple-ash. I will balance it with yellow; see, I 
have to let the colour down with umber until it is almost 
buff.” He rapidly covered a tile with the colour he had 
rubbed together. 

“ There, now, is not that choice ? ” 

He held up the poppy against the tile in his trembling 
hand. His enjoyment was keenly physical ; he turned it 
over like a child sucking a bull’s-eye. During this time 
Mark looked furtively at the girl by his side ; she happened 
to turn her head at the same moment. Both flushed. 
Mark edged away involuntarily, and she drew in her under lip 
as if vexed by her own curiosity. 

“ Did you say your mother was ill. Miss Laura ? Dear, 
dear, how very neglectful of me ; I trust she is better.” 

“ Yes, thank you, she is all right now ; I think she over- 
tired herself in the garden last night.” 

“ It is a great mistake to work when you are tired,” said 
Joseph, sententiously ; when your work ceases to be a 
pleasure it is time to leave off. I get tired sometimes, and 
then I smoke a pipe and look at the sky, or play with my 
bits of glass. I never work when I am tired.” 

“ Major Vassall wants to know when you are coming 
to look at the prints he spoke to you about. He thinks 
that two of them ought to be sent away before they are 

87 


Love with Honour 


framed ; he says they are foxed, but would like your opinion 
first.” 

“Very soon, very soon. Miss Laura, but I must finish 
this jardineer. It is for Mrs. Arkell. Mr. Cuthbert was 
here yesterday ; he wants me to make haste, but I told 
him that a good workman is never in a hurry. He is a very 
particular gentleman ; he talked to me a great deal about 
tones and values, but I don’t think he has a very good eye 
for colour. You have a very good eye for colour. Miss 
Laura, you always bring me just what I want.” Mark 
fancied a slight alteration in the girl’s face at the mention 
of Mr. Cuthbert. He disliked him by instinct, whoever 
he might be. As if to confirm her supposed embarrass- 
ment, the girl said : — 

“ I wish to see your sister ; shall I find her in ? ” 

“Yes, Miss Laura, you will find her preparing dinner, I 
hope, for it is getting near dinner time, and I have a very 
good appetite.” 

“ I will go across at once, then, so that I shan’t be in 
the way. Good morning, Joseph ; I should like to see the 
jardiniere before you send it away.” With a half-glance 
and inclination to Mark she was gone. 

Mark felt curiously vexed. He was not vain, but he 
wished he had made a better impression. He was entirely 
unused to the society of women, and believed he held them 
of small account, except in the case of heroines of romance, 
whom he failed to associate with the same sex. This girl, 
however, piqued him, aroused some combative instinct he 
could not give a name to. Why did she presume to carry 
herself so delicately ? Though she had not spoken to him, 
he intuitively decided that she did not recognise him as be- 

88 


Love with Honour 

longing to her species. He felt an odd desire to run after 
her, and claim at least the common attributes of humanity. 

“ That was Miss Laura Dampier,” said Ainger, “ one of 
the gentlefolk who live at Charlcote House.” 

Is that the place by the mill — with a high wall round 
it ? ” It may be observed that the wall now appeared to 
Mark as a piece of insolence. 

“Yes; that’s Charlcote. There’s only Mrs. Dampier 
and her daughter — Captain Dampier has been dead these 
many years ; Miss Laura never saw her father. They are 
good friends to me and would be better but that they are 
very poor.” He laughed to himself. “ The gentry have 
strange ways ; they do not seem to care for comfort. The 
Dampiers might live very well if they took a smaller house ; 
but they half starve themselves — no wine and very little 
meat — to keep up that big place. They work themselves 
to the bone, too, for they can only afford one servant. I 
have seen Miss Laura spoiling her pretty hands with bucket 
and brush. But they are real gentlefolk.” 

“ They are very proud people, I suppose,” said Mark. 

“ Yes ; but not as some are proud. They seem to be so 
sure of their position that they are not afraid of being seen 
talking to a poor man. Not like Mrs. Arkell, now ; Mrs. 
Arkell is what I call a proud woman. It’s ‘ Mr. Ainger ’ 
with her, always, and ‘ will you have a glass of wine, Mr. 
Ainger ? ’ — in the hall, while you wait for orders, you under- 
stand ? It is very good wine, though, cool and clean on the 
palate. I like good wine ; it is like a fine piece of sky. . . . 
You don’t get wine at the Dampiers, but always kindness 
and consideration. They are not afraid you will presume. 
Whenever I go there to tune the piano, the maid takes me 

89 


Love with Honour 


at once into the parlour. Miss Laura always asks my 
advice about her curtains — even her dresses.^’ 

“ Who is Mr. Cuthbert ? ” asked Mark, trying to make 
the question sound unconcerned. Old Ainger. laughed slily. 

“ He’s Mrs. Arkell’s son. He is very learned and can 
tell you what all the colours are made of. I think he must 
have read all the books that have ever been written. Per- 
haps that is why he has never had time to use his eyes. 
Though he seems to have used them to some purpose in 
one quarter ; I think he and Miss Laura will make a match 
of it some day. They are as sweet as pigeons over their 
books and their music.” 

“ Does he do anything — I mean, has he a profession ? ” 
Mark was not beyond the age which supposes the hearts of 
women responsive to mental attainments. 

“No; he doesn’t do anything. He’s been to Oxford 
college, and I did hear that he was so clever and had read 
so many books that the masters were jealous and would not 
give him the high certificates he ought to have had. It’s a 
strange thing, is book learning,” said Ainger, reflectively. 
“ The more a man has the less he is able to show for his 
trouble.” He washed his brushes carefully in a little pot of 
turpentine, and dried them with a rag. “ For my part, I 
like a man to do something well with his hands and enjoy 
the fine weather and his victuals and sleep quiet of nights. 
Now we will go and see what Elizabeth has got ready for 
us.” They passed out, Joseph jealously locking the door 
of his workshop behind him. In the air he uncovered his 
head, sniffing the gorse. 

“ Now this is what I call good,” he said, “ to feel the 
wind cool on your forehead. It composes the mind and a 

90 


' ' - y 

Love with Honour 



man always sees colour better when his mind is composed.^ 
Dear, dear, folks think a great deal too much. If they 
would only keep their heads cool and drink good ale, how 
much less trouble there would be in the world, to be sure. 
There’s my sister now,” he added, in a tone of vexation ; 

“ she’s always thinking and fancying trouble. Look at her 
yonder.” 

Mrs. Winscombe hovered uneasily about the head of the 
woodland path. Her hands were clasped nervously together, 
and every now and then she shielded her eyes and looked 
anxiously under the boughs. Just as the men came up the 
shrill voices of the children sounded from below. Mrs. 
Winscombe dropped her hand with a hearty sigh of relief. 

“ Elizabeth,” said Ainger, peevishly, “ the potatoes are 
burning. I can smell them; I cannot abide burned pota- 
toes.” 

‘‘ I’ll attend to them now,” said Mrs. Winscombe, im- 
mediately penitent, though she loitered to count the children 
round the corner. The youngsters capered round old 
Ainger, who laughed good-humoredly, though his thoughts 
were elsewhere. 

“ There, there,” he said, “ trot along and get your hands 
and faces washed ; who knows if I shan’t find a penny some- 
where after dinner.” 

“ Mary was naughty in school,” said Annie Abednego, 
cheerfully, as she climbed on to her stool. 

“ O Mary, I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Winscombe, paus- 
ing in the act of cutting bacon. “ Didn’t you promise to be 
good?” 

Mary wriggled about in an agony of shyness. 

‘‘ Yes,” chimed in Sally, ‘‘ teacher asked her three times 

91 


Love with Honour 


nine, and she didn’t know, she was all mazed ; and when 
teacher came to look, Mary had done up her pencils in 
her pocket-handkerchief. She was going to Inger on a 
omnibus.” 

“ Don’t go journeys in school,” pleaded Mrs. Wins- 
combe, hastily, seeing Joseph’s look of grief toward the 
glazing bacon. Only the daintiness of his eating saved 
Ainger’s attention to his food from being offensive. He 
ate as he painted, with slow, serious enjoyment. 

“ Now this is what I call right,” he said. “ How per- 
fectly the faint bitter of the greens sets off the lusciousness 
of this beautiful gammon, preventing it from cloying the 
palate. It is like a sharp, straight line in a scroll pattern ; 
it braces. Do as I do, Mr. Surtees; a little bit of each 
together. Annie, my dear, don’t eat so fast ; ’tis an insult 
to good victuals. Take your time, that the palate may do 
its work, and then you will grow fat and rosy.” 

Annie laughed blithely. 

‘‘ And Mr. Cuthbertarkle with the striped stockings — ” 

“ Hush, my child.” 

‘‘ And he did say ‘ perfeckly,’ ’cos we listened, and I 
nudged Mary,” shrieked the child, as one already guilty 
of the lamb. 

“ What was he at school for ? ” asked Mrs. Winscombe. 

“ About the ’lection. He did things with wires ; some- 
thing about the coostical proprieties,” said Annie, breath- 
lessly. 

“ Oh, then they are going to have a meeting in the 
schoolroom ; are you a politician, Mr. Surtees ? ” 

‘‘Well, I’m afraid a certain sort of politics is rather a 
weakness of mine,” said Mark, laughing. 

92 


Love with Honour 


“ What do you say ? ” enquired Ainger, in a digestive 
pause. “ Politics ? Never trouble with politics, Mr. Surtees ; 
they discompose the mind and make the hand unsteady. 
Drink another glass of this good ale. So long as there is good 
ale, and sound bacon, and honest work, I don’t see that it 
matters whether the Conservatives or the Liberals are in.” 

‘‘Yes, but I mean something deeper, the general prin- 
ciples by which we shape our lives.” 

“ Principles ? there are only three principles. Learn to 
use your eyes, and when you can see properly, take the best 
materials and pains in the using of them; those are my 
principles.” 

“Yes,” demurred Mark, “but in the larger sense, how 
are we to know when we do see properly, and what is the 
best material, and what are the right sort of pains ? Again, 
does the design count for nothing ? ” 

“Well, well,” said Ainger, “I’m afraid all that is too 
deep for me. I never could understand philosophy ; I think 
it a sad waste of daylight. Maybe you are right.” 

Smoking a pipe was a serious business with old Ainger. 
The instrument itself was an elaborate meerschaum; the 
tobacco, some forgotten brand of delicate flavour. There 
seemed also a customary ritual to be observed. Annie 
fetched the tobacco jar that she might exclaim anew daily 
over the picture of Balmoral enamelled on the lid; Mary, 
by reason of her neat-handedness, was allowed to fill the 
pipe, Ainger dithering with fear for all her care; whilst 
Sally, the imp of mischief, held the lighted match. Then 
Joseph retired to the wall outside, whilst the children 
romped about the green. Most of their games required 
a general incantation : — 


93 


Love with Honour 


“ Wallflowers, Wallflowers, growing up so high. 

We are all ladies, and we shall surely die ; 

Excepting little Annie, 

And she’s the youngest daughter ; 

She can hop. 

And she can skip. 

And she can turn the candlestick. 

Oh, for shame ! 

Fie, for shame ! 

Turn your backs to the wall again.” 

Under the influence of the chant Joseph dozed ; he con- 
tinued to murmur “ Pretty creatures,” with nodding head, 
unaware that the children had been reluctantly watched 
down the path to school. Mrs. Winscombe, having re- 
moved the pipe to its shrine, took advantage of her brother’s 
siesta to invade his cottage, that she might prepare Mark’s 
bed for the night. Mark wrote first to Mr. Pembridge, 
asking him to send the money to his present address. Then 
he unburdened himself to Hermann ; an extract from his 
letter may be quoted : — 

“ To-day I saw the most extraordinary woman. I am not, 
as you know, offensively vain, but this girl — for she cannot 
be more than twenty — made me feel exactly like a piece of 
dirt. I should say that she is an apt illustration of the stony 
indifference to realities that is bred by our artificial ways of 
life. Please don’t think that I pique myself on being, or 
looking, interesting ; what I would point out is that a healthy 
mind takes some sort of interest in everything, however com- 
monplace. If I had pushed myself in any way, I could un- 
derstand the snub — for it is astonishing how even a young 
girl can make a man look small. As it happened, I did not 

94 


Love with Honour 


even speak in her presence. Nor was she the sort of girl 
who would look down on a fellow because of his clothes ; 
she herself was very quietly, and, I should say, cheaply dressed. 
She is a Miss Laura Dampier; the Dampiers seem to be 
rather a swell family here, though poor. The girl is very 
pretty, and here by the way is another score for my theories ; 
you know that I have always held that Botticelli’s model is 
essentially a modern type ? Well, here she is. She carries 
herself badly — stoops at the shoulders. I’m inclined to be- 
lieve she’s vain; perhaps she thought I should have pros- 
trated myself before her beauty, though the irritating thing 
is she did not appear to think about me at all. I think I 
shall send her a certain letter of Lord Chesterfield’s.” 


95 


Chapter VII 

M rs. ARKELL and her son Cuthbert assumed 
that they despised Baronetcy as the formal 
certificate of respectable dulness. Until he 
married, John Arkell had been rather proud 
of his brother’s title ; afterward, when taxed with the rela- 
tionship, he admitted it apologetically. His wife used the 
fact to subdue him ; to have missed the banal distinction by 
being born a year too late was an aggravation, ‘‘ attempted 
Baronetcy,” like “ attempted suicide,” adding feebleness to 
crime. For all that, when he died his widow and son watched 
the affairs of Sir Francis Arkell with anxiety they never be- 
trayed to each other. Except that once, in an affectionate 
interlude, Mrs. Arkell said : — 

“It’s bad enough to have a Sir Francis in the family, as 
if we were brewers or leather people ; but I shrink from 
imagining the sort of person who might be called Lady 
Arkell.” This may have been unconscious, or an over- 
subtle way of reminding Cuthbert of the need for discretion 
on his own part, since he inherited. 

“ Poor boy,” Mrs. Arkell would murmur, on the rare 
occasions when they alluded to this last indignity, “ you see 
it hampers you so dreadfully ; you can’t do anything with 
this hanging over your head. I wish some claimant — in 
Australia or somewhere — would come forward ; I’m sure we 
should never contest him. The worst of it is you’ll have 
to marry ; it is bad form to let the title die out since we are 
saddled with it — or do you think we ought to set a precedent ? 
96 


Love with Honour 


But there’s your duty to the estate ; no, I’m afraid you can’t 
do anything.” 

So Cuthbert did nothing very gracefully. He was 
austerely above amateurism, though he was always ready to 
give compassionate advice to those who painted or played 
or wrote. 

When Sir Francis was present the Arkells scorned him 
very gently ; though they allowed him to see how pained 
they were when he added to Baronetcy, which after all 
might be excused him, since he was born to it, like bow-legs 
or curly hair, the gratuitous affront of standing for Par- 
liament. His previous record had shown a praiseworthy 
desire to evade his congenital misfortune ; he was in the 
navy, and when he was able to conceal Sir Francis behind 
Admiral Arkell, his sister-in-law expressed her personal 
gratitude. 

“ I shall not forget this, Frank,” she said, with tears in 
her eyes ; “ it has touched me more than I can say.” 

There were occasions, however, when they used the 
accidental title to impress the simple-minded upon whom the 
deliberate honour would be thrown away — as a philosopher 
may gain the applause of the populace by kicking off at a 
football match. When Sir Francis came to dine and 
sleep, the Arkells selected their table with semi-negligent 
care. On the occasion of the election dinner it was emi- 
nently a Sir Francis night. The baronet added to his in- 
herited failing a habit of addressing Mrs. Arkell as “ Loo.” 

“I say. Loo,” he said, beaming round the table with 
that large friendliness proper to sailors, “ doesn’t Vassall 
live somewhere about here ? ” 

“ Why isn’t he here ? ” was implied. Mrs. Arkell 
97 


H 


Love with Honour 


coloured, and people felt a little uncomfortable. Cuthbert 
looked sympathetically at his mother, who escaped with a 
tact worthy of her. 

‘‘ Live ? ” she said ; “ well, if grubbing about a garden all 
day and neglecting his friends may be said to be living. 
Major Vassall lives at Moorlands.” 

“ Vassall,” began Cuthbert, and the P'errars girls leaned 
forward expectantly, cultivates illusions with the aid of a 
drill book.” 

“Now, Cuthbert — ” said his mother, admiringly, and 
ensured a laugh. 

“ By the way, Mr. Dallinger,” said Cuthbert to the 
rector, “ do you know anything of a chap, friend of old 
Ainger’s on the Camp ? Sort of intellectual tramp ; 
haven’t seen him myself.” 

“Well, no,” said the rector. “I heard there was a 
young fellow staying there; indeed. I’ve passed him in the 
village. It so happens, however, that I haven’t been up to 
the Camp this week. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ Don’t you think that a stranger a| election time always 
means something ? ” suggested Cuthbert, with a side glance 
at his uncle. 

“To tell you the truth,” answered Mr. Dallinger, “that 
didn’t strike me. Now I remember, the man did look 
rather that sort of thing, dark, sallow — Carlyle’s political 
enthusiast.” 

“ Perfectly,” said Cuthbert, “ it’s quite possible we shall 
have some fun to-morrow night.” 

“About this interesting stranger,” lisped Alice Ferrars. 
“ Is he really handsome ? I imagine a sad-looking man 
soured by some early disappointment.” 

98 


Love with Honour 


“ It must have been a teething-ring, then,” said Cuthbert, 
laughing. “ Laura Dampier described him as about eighteen. 
From her account he is the worst kind of smug ; you know 
the sort. Board-schoolmaster with ideas ; B. A. London, 
and all that.” 

“ How very exclusive you Oxford men are,” said Mrs. 
Dallinger; the rector was from Christ Church. “I should 
have thought you would be interested in a struggling young 
man of intellect.” 

“ Like London B.A.’s, Mr. Ballinger ? ” asked Cuth- 
bert, laconically. There was a laugh round the table ; every- 
body knew of the rector’s encounters with Forster, of the 
British School, who wore the honours referred to. Mr. 
Ballinger’s answer was inaudible. 

“ But I must say,” pursued Cuthbert, “ I’m very anxious 
to know if this chap is coming to the meeting ; I like a 
chin battle.” 

“ Very kind of you. I’m sure,” said Sir Francis, rue- 
fully, “ I’m praying for quiet ; if they heckle me. I’m 
done for.” 

“But don’t you see — set him off against Forster. I 
know Forster’s going, because he told me so, with an 
apology, ‘ means no personal affront to the family, but his 
conscience wouldn’t allow him,’ etc., etc. You know the 
style.” 

“ But supposing they unite ? ” asked Mrs. Arkell, 
anxiously. 

“ What ? two earnest young men agree when there’s 
I a chance for a debate ? It doesn’t matter what the other 
j fellow’s opinions are, Forster will go for him ; he likes 
intellectual wrestling,’ he told me so.” 
tLoFC. 99 


Love with Honour 

“ I say, Cuthbert,” said the rector, suspiciously, “ it 
seems to me you’re rather well posted in Forster’s 
preferences.” 

“ Perfectly ; I cultivate him. He’s precisely what I 
should have been if I hadn’t been saved by a sense of 
humour.” 

“But,” said Sir Francis, doubtfully, “where do I come 
in ? I had a vague idea this was my meeting.” 

“ So it is j that is to say, you’re the ‘ swarry.’ Having 
been introduced, and defined yourself, the less you say the 
better. You say ‘Bless you, my children,’ and they do the 
rest.” 

Mark could not persuade Ainger to go with him to the 
meeting. 

“ No,” said the old man ; “ it does me no good to go out 
at night ; I can’t abide the opening and shutting of doors, 
I get cold in my ears. There’s very little of the speaking 
I can follow, though I like to watch the people’s faces, 
particularly when they get heated with argument. Then 
you see the birds and wolves and cats come out to play, 
because they are not thinking about themselves. You have 
a bird in your face, Mr. Surtees, if you will pardon my saying 
so, and he generally sits there because you are mostly think- 
ing about something outside yourself. No ; I will sit by 
the fire and smoke my pipe, and you shall tell me when you 
come home how many birds you have seen. A many, I do 
not doubt ; for it is the common type of face in these parts.” 

So Mark went alone. He had by this time formed a 
nodding acquaintance with several of the villagers, whose 
efforts to place him gave him a good deal of amusement. 
When he reached the school, which commanded the road 


lOO 


Love with Honour 

like a fortress of learning, the doors were still closed; but 
within was a cheerful bustle of the privileged. Little knots 
of men and boys, wearing favours, were scattered about the 
yard ; on the approach of a new-comer they lined the battle- 
ments, and greeted him or her with cheerful and intimate 
salutations. Mark was received with murmurs, flavoured 
here and there with a personality from the rear ranks. Each 
side supposed him of the other, on the principle that a 
stranger is always an enemy until proved a friend. Mark 
was young enough to be a little elated by their notice ; the 
half-turned heads, the dropping voices, gave him a sense of 
mystery and power. After a little shoving an elderly, clean- 
faced man in a square ‘‘ bowler ” hat approached him. 

“ May I make so free, young sir, as to ask which colour 
you do favour ? ” he said slily, as one propounding a riddle. 

“ I don’t take any side,” said Mark; ‘‘ I’m a looker-on.” 

“ Surely that’s neither pork nor bacon, as you may say,” 
persisted the other; ‘‘ ’tis dangerous, like trimming, and we’m 
all good Arkells or Greens, which happens to be yaller.” 

“ At present I’m for nobody,” said Mark, civilly. 

‘‘ Mr. Nobody,” cried a wit. 

“ The Independent Party,” cackled another, with a 
tincture of learning. 

“’Ear, ’ear; three cheers for Mr. Nobody, the Inde- 
pendent Party.” 

They gave him rousing honours. Mark grew hot and 
uncomfortable, but kept his temper. He had wit enough to 
see that the chaff was a symptom of that shyness the un- 
couth share with animals when a stranger is amongst them. 
Luckily the doors opened on the last “ hip, hip,” and the 
cheer dropped like a slack sail. Mark followed at the tail 


lOI 


Love with Honour 


of the rush; inside he hesitated for a moment, and was 
hailed with earnest invitations to ‘‘ sit along o’ we.” A 
burnt, cropped old man looked sharply round. 

“ Now, you boys,” he cried, “ keep quiet or out you go.” 
He measured Mark with a grave, keen glance, and pointed 
him out a seat to the right of the platform, on the first row 
of forms. Before were chairs; thus Mark was relegated 
to the masses. When his neighbour, who happened to be 
the man who had questioned him outside, said, “ That 
be Major Vassall,” the information was superfluous. 
Mark found himself staring at a slender young fellow in 
knickerbockers, who, seated on the edge of the platform, 
surveyed the room with a quiet, self-possessed smile. A 
hot feeling of envy, wholly new, tightened round Mark’s 
throat. How graceful the man was ! not with the serenity 
of mere breeding either ; he was obviously intellectual. For 
a moment his eye met Mark’s ; his eyebrows lifted a little, 
and the smile grew a shade more positive. For the time 
Mark ceased to be a philosopher; he narrowed to his cir- 
cumstances and looked down into the deeps ; he understood 
the blind hatred of the sans-culotte. The feeling receded 
and left him merely envious. As if to give point to what 
was in his mind, some one at the back of the room called out : 
‘‘ Thee’d best be careful. Muster Arkell ; Muster Nobody 
be a gwine to eat ’ee up for a start.” 

Cuthbert lifted his chin involuntarily, but did not turn 
aside. Something personal came into the eyes of these two 
gazing at each other, a recognition that they were to be 
matched in the future. There was question, appraisal, 
and a hint of challenge. So intent were they that Laura 
and Mrs. Dampier were unnoticed between them. Arkell 


102 


Love with Honour 


dropped his eyes ; he was annoyed that Laura should have 
seen him interested in Mark. Laura looked gravely from 
one to the other ; there was no feeling in her glance, only 
quiet observation. She bowed to Cuthbert, who moved 
impulsively forward, relief giving him a schoolboy awkward- 
ness. Cuthbert shook hands with both ladies, and he and 
Laura stood for a moment in earnest conversation. He 
would not have admitted that he held her for a moment 
longer than she desired, to emphasise his privilege. Mark 
was looking moodily at the chair in front of him. Mrs. 
Dampier, still standing, rested her hand on the back, and 
Mark saw her knuckles whiten in a convulsive grip. He 
looked up and met her haunted eyes ; he stared at her 
blankly whilst she haggardly searched his face. She turned 
away with a frightened smile, her white lips parting almost 
as if she were about to speak, and abruptly sat down. The 
meeting took a secondary place ; these four people were 
shown each other upon a smaller stage ; they were permitted 
these few moments of introduction before each resumed his 
or her own appointed place. When Laura was seated Mark 
heard her mother say, carelessly, — 

“ Is that the man you spoke of, sitting just behind me ? ” 
Laura’s reply was inaudible. The rector’s voice broke in 
upon Mark’s reverie : — 

“ Ladies and gentlemen : there is no need for me to 
tell you why we are here to-night. Nor do you need to be 
told who is Sir Francis Arkell.” 

‘‘ For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” in several keys. 

“Further, I think I’m right in saying that, so far as 
we are concerned. Sir Francis Arkell will represent this 
division in Parliament.” 


103 


Love with Honour 

He sat down, and the admiral hitched himself out of his 
chair. A man at the back of the room whistled a few bars 
of a hornpipe, and many feet took up the rhythm. Sir 
Francis, with a happy inspiration, acknowledged the com- 
pliment by pulling his forelock, sailor-fashion. Men 
cheered wildly, and women sobbed “ God bless him ! ” 
Cuthbert tugged nervously at his mustache; but Sir 
Francis was all right. He plunged at once into a plainly- 
worded but enthusiastic statement of his views. If there 
were opponents present, they could not complain that they 
did not know what they were opposing. Sir Francis 
reeled out his articles of belief as one deputed to announce 
the orders for the day ; he concluded by inviting anyone 
who wanted to ask questions to “come aboard and have 
it out.” 

Young Forster disengaged himself from his female body- 
guard, and, with a deprecating air, ascended the platform. 
He apologised in many-syllabled language for his presence 
and opposition, but averred : — - 

“As a gentleman and a Christian I am compelled to 
enter a protest against the duplicity of those who, under 
the pretence of supporting a Conservative policy, unite in a 
ruthless attack upon the proudest boast of the Conservative 
Englishman — his Protestant Heritage.” Sir Francis had 
followed his nephew’s advice and used Foreign Policy as a 
war-cry ; but Forster traced the hand of Roman aggression 
even in that. 

“ Why, my friends,” he said, “ why this unwarrant- 
able interference with the cherished rights of a simple 
pastoral people ? There are some who say the lust of 
gold, but it lies deeper than that.” He ingeniously con- 
104 


Love with Honour 


nected the prisoner of Devil’s Island vi^ith the capitalist of 
Johannesburg — common victims of the Jesuit; with mys- 
tical allusions to the Lost Tribes of the Veldt. 

“But I,” said Forster, pathetically, “confess to the un- 
pardonable sin of being a young man. It is possible” 
— here he passed his hand over a carefully exposed fore- 
head — “ that I aim too high ; that I follow unrealisable 
ideals.” Cries of “ No, no, Forster ; you’re a good sort.” 
“ It may be that long hours of study, the cares of my pro- 
fessional duties, and the scrutiny of ancient history ” — the 
rector shifted his feet, indignantly — “ have blinded me to 
what is going on in our own homes at the present time. 
I am prevented by my youth from making a comparison 
drawn from personal observation between the peaceful years 
which preceded this troubled time and the — the state of 
things at present existing. I therefore call upon my aged 
friend, Mr. George Summers.” Uproarious applause and 
cries of “ Good ole Jarge.” “ Mr. Summers has lived in 
this village, man and boy, for sixty long years; he has 
lived, alas ! to behold the time when the insidious curse of 
Popery has wormed its way under our very hearthstones. 
My aged friend is a bright Christian and a man of unusual 
intelligence ; it may be that you fine ladies and gentlemen 

he indicated the front row — “will despise George” — 

here Cuthbert emitted a solemn “No, no” — “because he 
has been denied those advantages of education which your 
wealth, and my burning zeal — but I would ask you,” he 
cried fiercely, “ who has denied him those advantages, and 
for what unworthy ends ? ” 

Amidst loud cries of “Cut it short, Forster; let’s ’ear 
Jhrge ! ” Forster descended and passed to the bosom of his 

105 


Love with Honour 


admirers. Sir Francis helped old George upon the plat- 
form. 

“ He’s been got at,” whispered Cuthbert to Major 
Vassall. 

“ I’m afraid so, in more ways than one,” said the old 
man, grimly. 

‘‘I mind,” began Jarge, in a tremulous, piping voice, I 
mind the time when bread wur a shillin’ the fower pun 
loaf.” He smacked his lips. ‘‘Ah! but it was bread 
then ; not the stuff as they sells now, aal bones and alum. 
’Twas aal brown crusses on the outside, — do mek my ole 
gums ache to think on un, — but the inside was aal of a 
mush, and that sweet like ca-ake ; every bit same as ca-ake.” 
He smiled vaguely at the room. 

“ Ah, poor soul,” sighed a woman, “ a be a girt age.” 
This was the note expressing how Jarge touched them ; his 
“ girt ” age. 

“ Go on, Jarge ; tell’s some more,” came in tones of real 
interest from the back of the room. 

“ I do mind the time when ’twas alius free beer ’lection; 
good strong a-ale, not the washy stuff as they do sell at the 
public; so much good a-ale as a poor man could drink for 
the askin’. I mind Parson Woodruff an’ ole Squire 
Arkell — that was your gran’fer, young sir,” this in a stage 
whisper to the gloomy Cuthbert, whose only consolation 
was Forster’s visible agony ; indeed, the latter half rose, but 
was shouted down. 

“Tell’s about ole Squire Arkell, Jarge.” 

Mrs. Arkell sat heroically offering in her face the support 
of a Roman mother to her uneasy son. Sir Francis did 
not try to conceal his shameless enjoyment of the whole 
io6 


Love with Honour 


business. On Major Vassall’s face was written fierce 
regret for a clean corporal’s guard. 

“ Up at the Dragon,” chanted Jarge, “I was a strapping 
girt la-ad — hey ! ” with momentary fire, “ an’ parson he 
laid five shillun agin ole Squire Arkell — that was your 
gran’fer, young sir.” 

“ Get on wi’ ut, Jarge.” 

Jarge closed his eyes with a weird ventral chuckle. 

‘‘ There’s a main lot o’ wenches here to-night, tidy bits 
some of ’em, but give I the wenches when I was a young- 
ster. I mind the day of the thunder-storm when the bolt 
fell in the hunnerd acre field ; I worked up to Squire 
Arkell’s, then.” 

Fortunately Cuthbert had heard the reminiscence before, 
and knew it to be quite impossible. He jumped up. 

Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, “ this is worse than 
useless.” 

“ Shut up and let ole chap speak ; less hear ole chap.” 

“ The man’s drunk,” cried Cuthbert, indignantly. 
Forster rose. 

“ I protest,” he shouted. “ Mr. Summers” — he omitted 
“ my aged friend ” — ‘‘ is perhaps unequal to the strain of this 
meeting. I agree with Mr. Arkell that he is at present 
unable to give us the benefit of his experience, but I cannot 
allow this accusation to pass ; unless — ” he glanced uneasily 
at Jarge, who, sunk in his chair, was quavering an old-time 
epithalamion. 

“ I would ask Mr. Arkell to remember his own follies.” 
Cries of “ Oh, Oh ! ” “I need not revive an old scandal, 
but I would ask him to remember that even the poor have 
their virtues. Surely he should know ; the righteous anger 
107 


Love with Honour 

of parents, the manly wrath of an honest lover. I do not 
wish, as I say — ” There were yells of delight from the 
back benches. 

“ ’Ullo, Sue ; let down your back ’air, dear,” came in an 
absurd mimicry of Cuthbert’s voice. Sir Francis gazed at 
his nephew with a mixture of pained astonishment and sly 
satisfaction. Mark was relieved to see the rector choking 
with laughter, whilst even Laura Dampier was smiling. 
Above the hubbub in the room a shrill voice, presumably 
Sue’s, sounded : — 

“ ’Old your tongue, saucy, or I’ll give ’ee a slap side the 
’ead.” Amidst the burst of laughter the rector got up. 

“ If there are no more questions to put,” he began, still 
spluttering, “ I propose that the resolution — ” But here 
Mark’s neighbour, who had been hungrily waiting, broke in. 

“ ’Scuse me, rector, but I do make so bold as to say 
there is questions. ’Taint the full bar’ls as makes most 
rumble. I spy,” he said, with airy good humour, “ I spy 
a young friend as I met cornin’ in ; my young friend has 
got questions, a main heap o’ questions.” 

“ Oh, ah ! Mr. Nobody ; less ’ear Mr. Nobody.” 

Major Vassall came over and looked at Mark enquiringly. 
The candidate beamed encouragement. Mark shook his 
head ; but the noise increased, and a glance from Cuthbert 
which said ‘‘you’re afraid” stung him. He jumped up 
and made his way to the platform. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, “ I didn’t come here 
to-night to speak or to ask questions; I came to listen and 
to look on.” 

Cheers and cries of “ Spy, spy.” Mark’s neighbour had 
aptly provided a catchword. 

io8 


Love with Honour 


“ I came here to learn, and Fve learned a great deal. 
Pve learned that the whole system of parliamentary elec- 
tion is rotten, that there’s hardly a man of you fit to use his 
vote. You don’t know what you want, and if you did it 
wouldn’t be good for you. If you wish to serve your 
country, you’ll just go home and keep away from the poll- 
ing booth until the election is all over.” 

Thus cheaply did Mark earn his reputation as a danger- 
ous political agitator, for what is more significant than an 
attack upon the franchise ? There was an ugly murmur, 
and forms moved as if men were coming forward. Major 
Vassall nodded, and a sleepy, good-humoured looking young 
giant uncoiled himself. He smiled sheepishly down at his 
large hands, and buttoned his coat closely around him ; the 
murmur ceased. The rector put the resolution, and the 
meeting came to an end. 

The schoolroom emptied slowly, and Mark was com- 
pelled to dawdle amongst the more sober electors who had 
filled the front benches. Major Vassall spoke behind his 
shoulder. 

“You are Mr. Surtees, I believe? Would you mind 
waiting here a few minutes until I am at liberty ? Your 
way home is also mine ; I should be glad of your com- 
pany.” Had Mark known that the major’s proposal 
came from the fear lest he, Mark, should be roughly used 
by the enthusiasts outside, it is probable that he would have 
excused himself. He stood by the door whilst the major 
went back to the little knot of people round the candidate. 

“I say, Cuthbert,” said Sir Francis, “what’s all this 
about Sue ? ” Cuthbert sighed. 

“Tell him, Mr. Ballinger,” he said. 

109 


Love with Honour 


Oh, it was merely a sin of his youth, Sir Francis, just 
after he left Oxford; a result of indiscreet enthusiasm in 
the pursuit of water-colour painting.” 

‘‘ Please don’t accuse me of that ; that’s worse than vil- 
lainy,” laughed Cuthbert. “ Paint only happened to be the 
medium; it might have been verse or music. The fact is, 
the girl had unusual hair.” 

‘‘ Don’t see that justified you a bit,” said his uncle, with 
mock severity. 

“Well, it’s one of my theories that people’s qualities are 
the legitimate spoil of those who can appreciate them.” 

“Cuthbert asked Sue to sit for her portrait; nothing in 
that^ you know, though she had a young man of her own. 
Unfortunately, Cuthbert wasn’t satisfied with Sue as Sue ; 
he must needs paint her as — who was it ? ” 

“ The Lady of Shalott,” said Cuthbert, with a little 
shudder. 

“ So he asked her to let her hair down.” 

“ And did she ? ” said Sir Francis. 

“ Of course ; and as soon as she got the picture, which 
Cuthbert lent her, she foolishly showed it to her friends, 
including her young man.” 

“ Was there a row ? ” 

“Was there, Cuthbert?” said the rector, wickedly; “I 
never heard the full details.” 

“You know they made a sermon of it over at the 
chapel,” growled Cuthbert, “ and I had to carry a life 
preserver because of Jim. I believe he thrashed Sue, the 
beast. But I thought they’d forgotten all about it by 
now.” They passed down the schoolroom, laughing and 
talking. Mark stood silent and sombre just within the 


no 


f Love with Honour 

t' 

N'- door. The men wished him the impersonal “ good night ” 

\ of country acquaintances ; if Laura noticed him she did not 

turn her head, but Mrs. Dampier, as by some impulse she 
would have controlled, smiled in an apologetic way. It 
seemed as if for some reason she wished to win his good 
^ opinion. The Arkells’ carriage was in waiting, and the 
Dampier ladies got in. 

J cc Very sorry to have kept you waiting ; should have told 
\ you my name, Vassall. Mr. Surtees, you have interested 
t me; you are a man of ideas. I may tell you that I entirely 
^ disagree with your opinions, which, though theoretically 
if sound, are directly opposed to the well-being of the com- 
k munity under existing conditions. However, we will not 
discuss that now ; I hope to have another opportunity.” 

J During the rest of their walk the Major’s conversation 
i was the eulogy of Mrs. Winscombe. 


Major Vassall returned. 


Chapter VIII 


T he morning brought surprising news from Her- 
mann. He explained, a little primly, that, 
being satisfied with his banking account, he 
had cut himself loose from Mr. Lambert Range- 
worthy, and bought a small business in London, in Slade 
Street. Not a bad business, he believed, but the man he 
bought it from was “ not industrious,” hence one might ex- 
pect an almost immediate improvement in capable hands. 
With confidence, but without enthusiasm, as if it were a 
sum in arithmetic, Hermann described his plans for the 
future. He intended to work chiefly for ‘‘ the trade,” mak- 
ing enlargements, lantern slides, and the like ; and, since 
many painters lived or worked in Slade Street, he hoped to 
get orders for the photographic reproduction of pictures ; 
he would also undertake mounting and framing. He added 
a postscript calling Mark’s attention to the unpleasant 
rumours about “ Incas,” and asking, ‘‘ How long are you 
staying in Charlcote ? ” 

Mark was a little annoyed by the implication that he had 
fallen away from his first enthusiasm. It was true he had 
been at Charlcote for a week, but the pause was active, 
not passive. He was under the spell of the Camp. In 
the atmosphere of this place all human occupation seemed 
trivial ; here was the world’s slow growth for comparison. 
One listened to the traditions of great age murmured close 
to the ground by plants too small to be affected by the 
change of years. Oaks decay and others take their place 
without inheritance ; but these faint ground whispers pre- 


II2 


Love with Honour 


^served the memory of those who nearly two thousand years 
‘before kept watch over the distant Severn. The very in- 
sects spun history. 

Mark walked round the Camp, and finally selected the 
shady corner under the chestnuts, where the sound of plash- 
ing water, far below, suggested movement for a pleasant 
contrast. Here he lay down on his back, and, covering his 
face with his straw hat, began vehemently explaining to 
himself why he did not move on. Part of his original pro- 
gramme had been a fresh pillow every night. Yes, but 
that presupposed nothing of arresting interest by the way. 
i Then who could have foreseen that he would run short of 
I money ? He was perfectly willing to admit that he had 
been thoughtless, or, to be accurate, over enthusiastic. 
Now that he was in pocket again, common decency re- 
quired he should not rush away from the people who had 
befriended him. He gave it to the vegetable world as an 
axiom that nothing offends country people more than the 
hasty intrusion of commercial considerations. When he 
proposed to settle his account, Mrs. Winscombe had named 
a sum absurdly below reason ; and only his pointing out 
that it was the children, not she, who would suffer by her 
estimate induced her to accept twelve shillings a week. 

, Mark believed her to be vexed by his bringing the question 
i forward so early ; he could give no definite reason for leav- 
I ing Charlcote, hence it implied dissatisfaction with his quar- 
: ters. He wished to remove this impression. If one came 
to think the matter over quietly, there were many reasons 
for a wise passivity. Since his profession was that of ob- 
server of things in general, it was absurd to hurry away from 
an election nearing its crisis. It was a new experience, and 

113 


I 


Love with Honour 


he might never have the opportunity again. Further, he 
had given a half promise to Major Vassall. He argued 
that any modification of his programme was permissible, 
since he was absolutely free. Indeed, he could not remem- 
ber that he had ever stated his plans in detail. Mark did 
not recognise how all this analysis proved that what was 
originally an impulse had become a fad; he clinched the 
matter with “ despatch is the sign of a strong mind, hurry 
of a weak one.’’ No, he would not hurry. 

Whether lulled by the water or the warmth, Mark had 
lapsed into so uncertain a state that the last words were 
spoken aloud. “ No, 1 won’t hurry.” There was a curi- 
ous alteration in the light filtering through the interstices of 
his hat, a phase of green as if something or somebody had 
moved away. He scrambled to his feet and was foolishly 
face to face with Laura Dampier. His carefully poised 
arguments fell to the ground ; they were unnecessary, and 
he regretted his letter to Hermann. 

Against the sun, her head a little forward, Laura’s natural 
questing look was intensified. Her whole presence was a 
warm whiteness with the stillness of a sleeping humming- 
top. Only half awake, Mark was the less conscious of the 
two. He looked at her with indignant self-possession. 

“ She’s yellowish all over,” he thought critically. The 
summary, though inexact, did suggest her creamy white, run- 
ning here and there into stronger tones, tawny lights in her 
brown hair and eyes that were more golden than hazel. 
She gave the idea of warmth without pinkness, such as one 
finds in strawberries ripened away from the sun. 

“ I thought you were asleep,” she said. 

No, I wasn’t asleep ; I was thinking.” 

114 


Love with Honour 


“ Pm sorry I disturbed you, but I have a message for you 
from Major Vassall.” Mark’s reply was emphatic in man- 
ner, though entirely inconsequent in substance. He wished 
at once to dispel the idea that he had been asleep and to 
advertise his savoir faire, 

“ If you are not engaged,” — she allowed an emphasis that 
might have been satirical, — “he will be glad to see you at 
his house any time after four this afternoon.” Her voice 
was a little odd; she breathed her words without edges, 
though there was the suggestion of force behind. 

“ Very pleased. Pm sure,” muttered Mark. He was con- 
scious that he should have been annoyed ; who was Major 
Vassall that he commanded his presence in this manner ? 
Yet the message was sanctified by her who uttered it ; it 
was like receiving a letter that had been stored in some 
precious ark. He found it difficult to hit the precise tone 
1 of dignity, but Miss Laura Dampier must not be allowed to 
suppose him in the habit of taking orders. As a beginning 
he observed : — 

“ It’s a beautiful day.” 

“Yes ? ” Laura was looking steadily at the toes of his 
boots. She coloured violently, and, with a frown and shake, 
turned away her head. They were, he admitted, shocking 
' bad boots. Mark was quick to observe, and her confusion 
I appealed to him. “ She is ashamed for appearing to notice 
; my bad boots,” he thought. Should he explain that he was 
not really so poor as that ? He disliked the idea of pity 
I from her and hoped, in parenthesis, that Mrs. Winscombe 
; had not spoken of his foolish plight when the children found 
i him. Laura extricated him. 

I “ You have walked a long way,” she said. 


Love with Honour 

“ From London.” 

/ 

“ I have never been to London.” This, of course, was a 
deliberate attempt to make him forget her superiority, as one 
kneels to a child. It was intolerable. 

‘‘ I’m not a Londoner,” he said unnecessarily. “ I was 
only there a week.” 

“ One can see a great deal in a week.” 

If Miss Laura Dampier pictured him a gaping rustic, 
greedy of lions, she must be undeceived. 

“ I had to go to London on business,” then, lest she 
should think of commercial travellers, to see my guar- | 
dian.” It seemed of the first importance that she should | 
have a clear idea of him. | 

Laura moved on a few steps toward the cottage. She spoke ' 
frankly of her great wish to go to London, chiefly for the j 
opportunity to hear music. When she talked of Monday | 
Popular Concerts, Mark’s ignorance of the type of enter- 
tainment only confirmed his suspicion that she was conde- j 
scending. He spoke with immense gravity of his preference ! 
for “ good music ; the ‘ Messiah,’ you know, and ‘ Songs with- j 
out Words,’ ” but she mercifully evaded argument. She was 
first to recognise that in this they did not speak a common 
language, and encouraged him to talk about himself. To 
interest her he dragged in Hermann and his violin. Her ! 
opinion that as a German Jew he ought to play well struck 
Mark as singularly original ; and he felt it was a matter of 
supreme importance that Hermann should be told of his 
great good luck. He wondered whether he should com- 
municate the news as a discovery of his own or give chap- 
ter and verse. Meanwhile he realised that he was following | 
Laura to the cottage without a definite understanding. It ' 

ii6 


Love with Honour 


was too late to assert his independence now without being 
uncouth. Besides, he flattered himself that Miss Dampier’s 
manners improved under a little firm treatment. He thought 
of asking her whether she had read Wilhelm Meister, just 
to hint darkly at his own situation and wide reading ; but 
there was no time. He supposed it the proper thing to open 
the gate for her, lift his hat and withdraw, with a relapse 
into gravity as who should say, “ I return to my thoughtful 
solitude j ” but Laura happened to remark the beauty of 
Mrs. Winscombe’s snapdragons. Mark had to confess that 
he didn’t know a snapdragon when he saw one. Laura 
pointed them out, explaining that the blooms were even finer 
had the central shoot been nipped out, so. She illustrated. 
Mark was forced to observe her hands, which, though large, 
were wonderfully shaped, the long fingers curving back from 
knuckles that were not visible — dead-white hands of sin- 
gularly fine texture that would neither burn in summer nor 
redden in winter. It was a pleasure, Mark admitted, to 
watch her hands. There was a finish of movement, as if 
it came straight from the shoulder to the finger tips; and, 
his eye travelling up, Mark admired the roundness of her 
upper arm. “She has beautiful hands,” he corrected him- 
self mentally. Thus they were at the door ere Mark 
recollected his manners. 

Mrs. Winscombe looked up from her work, resting her 
hand on the iron she was using. Mark found it easier to 
read Laura in her face than from direct observation, when 
he was distracted by shyness ; and the reflection lifted him 
out of himself with a jump, though Mrs. Winscombe’s 
glance included him embarrassingly. He hesitated whether 
it were not due to the girl to explain how he came to be 


Love with Honour 

with her, but a saner instinct warned him to let be, and 
saved the situation. 

For a little while Mark was left outside the conversa- 
tion, whilst the two women talked about the children. 
Laura had come to propose an excursion. 

“ I want to take the children a long tramp on Thurs- 
day, to Toron Hill. May they come? We’ll get some 
tea there, and I won’t keep them too late. Please don’t 
put on their best things.” 

“ It’s very good of you to be bothered with them. Miss 
Laura,” said Mrs. Winscombe, anxiously. “ I’m afraid 
they’re very rough, and they will ask a lot of questions, 
though I try to break them.” 

“ I think it’s a pity to put them too much on their 
consciences, poor little things,” laughed Laura. It was 
evident that Mrs. Winscombe’s fierce tenderness was 
guided in many things by Laura’s finer intelligence, and 
though the girl made her suggestions with all deference to 
the other’s age, they were seized upon with almost painful 
eagerness. 

“ I’m so afraid. Miss Laura, of letting them think they’re 
to do things because I wish; I try to make them under- 
stand why a thing is right or wrong.” 

The discussion of children’s questions led to Mrs. Wins- 
combe speaking of Mary’s identification of Mark with the 
picture in the spelling-book. The book was fetched. 

“ That is the picture,” said Laura, at length. “ I quite 
understand what Mary means ; that is not a traveller, but 
The Traveller.” 

Mrs. Winscombe, not quite so ready, made it personal. 
She gravely compared Mark with the picture. 

ii8 


Love with Honour 


It’s a much older man,” she said, “ and he looks un- 
happy. Mr. Surtees doesn’t look unhappy.” 

The others laughed. 

The traveller has no age, and is always unhappy. 

“ ‘ No friendly face or form I see. 

But all around is strange to me,’ ” 

quoted Laura. “That sort of unhappiness, you know. 
There’s always the hill in front.” She studied the picture 
with interest. 

“It’s surprising what a thrill it gives you — just the hill 
with the sun behind, a sort of eeriness like that you get 
with certain chords.” 

Mark affected to be practical. “ Until you’ve got rid 
of all that glamour,” he said, “ you don’t honestly appre- 
ciate the joy of being a traveller.” 

“ Is that your life ? how wonderful.” 

The remark was so full of feeling that Mark knew he 
had so far missed the life. He made a mental resolve to 
begin again, and find out what he had passed over. 

“ It is like everything else,” he said, “ the charm escapes 
when you pursue it deliberately.” 

Laura shook her head. “ I believe I am the true vaga- 
bond ; it is in my blood. Some ancestor of mine must 
have been a gipsy.” 

“Oh, I suppose the call comes to all of us some- 
times; I doubt if you would care to face the hardships in 
reality.” 

“ You forget I am a soldier’s daughter.” 

“ You believe in inherited experiences ? ” 

“ Surely ; I live more lives than my own. I have never 
119 


Love with Honour 


left Charlcote, but I have tramped over half the world and 
come upon the sea suddenly by night.” 

“ That’s your music, Miss Laura,” said Mrs. Wins- 
combe, anxiously. She was bewildered by the discussion, 
and wanted to explain things. 

“No,” said Laura, “I think not; you get nothing out 
of music that you don’t put into it.” 

“ Isn’t that true of the life — I mean the tramp’s life ^ ” 
said Mark. 

“ Perhaps ; but it is something to have the temperament.” 

He did not allow himself to think how the statement 
associated them, though he had a momentary picture of 
two hand in hand to the world’s end. As if to recall 
realities, Cuthbert Arkell knocked at the door. Mrs. 
Winscombe’s “ Please come in, Mr. Arkell,” was courteous 
enough, but Mark noted, with a satisfaction he could not 
explain, nothing more. Cuthbert nodded to Laura, waved 
“ No, thanks, thanks,” to Mrs. Winscombe’s offer of a 
chair, and, hitching himself on to a corner of the table, 
pulled a paper bag out of his pocket. 

“ A new sort of poison for the imps,” he said to Mrs. 
Winscombe. “ I got them at Littler’s on my way up. 
Littler assures me that ‘they ’aven’t been touched by 
the ’and in the whole process of manufacture.’ Sounds 
like a paradox, if you come to consider words, don’t it ? ” 
He spoke rapidly, smiling the whole time, less as one 
desiring attention than as compelled by inner pressure to 
sparkle. 

“ This is Mr. Surtees,” said Mrs. Winscombe. Cuth- 
bert showed an exaggerated deference. Mark, through 
awkwardness, did not see that the other made as if to hold 


X20 


Love with Honour 


out his hand. The smile and almost imperceptible shrug 
of the shoulders annoyed him ; he did not wish Miss 
Dampier to think him sulky. 

“ I’ve heard such a lot about you, Mr, Surtees, that I 
assure you I’m quite alarmed. I hope you haven’t con- 
vinced Miss Dampier that she’s a useless weed, because 
there are many sorts of uses, ain’t there ? We can’t all be 
so terribly in earnest. You made quite a sensation last 
night; only please don’t start another faction until this 
blessed election is over ; things are complicated enough as 
it is. Why not join the Forsterites for higher education 
and Christian socialism ? Afterward, you know, you 
could secede and establish a little crowd all of your very 
own. ‘Surtees and Simplicity’; get quite a local celebrity.” 
The misconception was sufficiently plausible to sting, but 
Mark had wit enough not to explain himself. 

“What’s the discussion, spelling? nobody spells nowadays, 
except — ” He left the sentence unfinished, with intention, 
and took up the spelling-book. Mark laughed, anxious to 
clear himself of the suspicion of ill temper. 

“ No ; we were trying to decide exactly what are the 
things that suggest romance in pictures.” 

“ I say, rather a large order,” said Cuthbert. “ Do for 
a Young Men’s Debating Society, with quotations from 
Keats and Wordsworth ; you know the sort of thing. For 
my part I’ve given up anything more exacting than the con- 
sideration of mere workmanship ; how many lines go to a 
bit of shading, and so on. Less ‘ improving,’ but safer.” 
He tossed the book aside, dismissing the subject, and 
turned to Laura. 

“ I called at Charlcote House, hoping to find you in* 


Love with Honour 

Pve got the ‘ Humoreskes/ Have you anything on, or 
shall we go back and try them over ? ” 

“ I’ll come directly,” said Laura, yet she did not move. 
Mark did not feel quite sure whether her delay was an 
assertion of independence, or due to her having something 
to say to Mrs. Winscombe. ( He disliked Cuthbert’s air of 
proprietorship, and was not sufficiently learned in women’s 
methods to know that their apparent submission is often an 
infin itel y jiv ise w ay of escaping annoyance^ He wished 
Laura to crush Cuthbert by some direct rebuff. 

“ My uncle was very disappointed that he didn’t meet 
you the other evening,” said Cuthbert, presently. The 
tone suggested that an explanation was desired. Laura 
answered glibly enough, — 

“ My mother has not been very well.” 

“ I’m sorry,” said Cuthbert, interrogatively. Laura 
frowned slightly. 

‘‘ It is nothing really serious, thank you ; she has passing 
attacks of faintness.” She seemed anxious to close the 
subject, as if she did not care to discuss her mother. Mark 
shrewdly guessed that for some reasons the Arkells failed 
to give Mrs. Dampier the consideration her daughter would 
have liked. 

“ It’s a great pity you don’t go out more, both of you,” 
observed Cuthbert, as in reference to a matter already 
argued ; “ it’s a cut-throat place.” 

“That’s a matter of temperament,” said Laura; “we 
are quite contented with Charlcote.” 

“ Perhaps ; but that’s no reason why you should deprive 
your neighbours of a pleasure it’s in your power to give.” 

Cuthbert made the egregious mistake of soothing Mark. 

122 


Love with Honour 


“ You know the history of this place ? ” he asked, and, 
without waiting for an answer : “ It was a Roman outpost 
established by Ostorius, who commanded the expedition 
against the Silures during the reign of Claudius — about 
54 A.D. Ostorius was the Johnny who licked Caractacus, 
you know j he had his headquarters somewhere about 
Barstow. There are two or three of these places in the 
neighbourhood — if you care for that sort of thing. There 
are some decent remains of a villa on a farm at Tockton, 
too ; I shall be glad to drive you over any time you like.” 

Mark reflected with amusement that Cuthbert’s details 
were probably derived from his own father’s researches. 
Laura used her privilege effectively. 

“ Pm ready when you like, Cuthbert,” she said, rising ; 
and, turning to Mark, ‘‘You’ll go down to Major Vassall’s?” 

“Yes; I’ll be there before five.” 

She turned her head away a little impatiently, and, bid- 
ding good-bye to Mrs. Winscombe, left the cottage with 
Cuthbert. 

Mrs. Winscombe resumed her ironing; she smiled to 
herself absent-mindedly. 

“ I fancy Miss Laura expected you would walk with them 
as far as Major Vassall’s. ” 

“ Do you think so ? I had an idea she would consider it 
a liberty.” 

“Oh, no; Miss Laura spoke very kindly of you the 
other day ; she met you at my brother’s, did she not ? ” 

“Well, she came in while I was in the workshop, but I 
didn’t think she noticed me.” Mrs. Winscombe went out 
and rubbed an iron on the doorstep. 

“ Miss Laura is very observant,” she said, examining 
123 


Love with Honour 


the implement with more attention than it deserved ; “ Joe 
says so. She asked me if you were a poet.” 

“ Fm flattered, Fm sure,” said Mark, laughing. “ What 
made her say that ? ” 

“ I think it must have been your face and the way you 
walk about the country. Miss Laura would like to do 
that too,” she added simply. 

‘Vl suppose,” said Mark, bitterly, that when she found 
I was only a sort of counter-jumper let loose, she took 
no further interest in me.” 

There you are wrong, Mr. Surtees,” she replied gravely ; 
“ you would not say that if you knew Miss Laura. She 
does not respect people for what they do or how they are 
dressed.” 

Mark allowed Laura and Cuthbert to get well ahead 
before he set out for Major Vassall’s. Though he 
assured himself that it was none of his business, he speculated 
on the exact relationship between the two. They liked 
each other, that was evident ; and the idea of constant 
sparring did not alter his conception of the terms on which 
they met. No doubt they are engaged, he thought, and 
will relapse into a typical marriage of convenience. A few 
weeks ago he would have held forth to Hermann on this 
apt illustration of tepid conventionality ; now, he would 
have been glad to reserve Laura for a striking exception — 
to prove his freedom from prejudice. 


124 


Chapter IX 



lARK found Major Vassall, in a Holland 
coat, planting cauliflowers. 


xxa: JlVXI. liial 3 iigiiL, Hc Cricd, 

“ I was afraid you might be out for a tramp ; 
you are a great walker, I believe. You’ll 



excuse me while I get these chaps in ? ” 

Mark observed that the old man put in the plants with a 
trowel, carefully measuring the distance between them with 
a notched stick. 

You see. I’m rather fidgetty about my distances ; I like 
to see them well drilled.” 

“ Isn’t it quicker to use a dibber ? ” asked Mark, for some- 
thing to say. 

“ Quicker, but not better. You see, the pressure of the 
dibber makes the soil hard and delays root growth. Might 
as well Stick them in a gun-barrel. Have a look round 
while I finish.” 

The garden was trained down to the last fibre. Major 
Vassall kept smother-fires burning as sedulously as if they 
had been altar lights. Indeed, it was a local saying, “ The 
major must be away or ill, his fires are not burning.” Not 
a weed nor a particle of superfluous greenery was permitted ; 
uprooted or clipped, they were carried at once to the fire ; 
even the haulms of the potatoes lifted for that day’s dinner 
reposed, the last victims of the burning, limp and yellow 
on top of the heap. The sharp odour as of incense some- 
how suited the priestly look of the major. The rows of 
peas and beans were drawn with mathematical regularity j 


125 


Love with Honour 


like their owner, they looked a trifle on the side of underfed. 
Everywhere was the suggestion of unhasting, unresting oc- 
cupation : one crop followed on the heels of another ; even 
the half-row of potatoes was dogged with savoy cabbages. 
Here and there a breadth of ground, frankly fallow, was 
already thrown up rough and dusted with lime. 

Mark made the round of the place and returned. 

“ How beautifully tidy you have your garden.’’ 

“ It isn’t really as I should like it,” said the major, taking 
a long sight down the row of plants ; “ but, by contrast with 
the gardens about here, it is tidy.” He stood, winding up 
the line he had been using. 

It is hard to persuade people that order is an economy ; 
they suppose, illogically, that if they allow things to grow 
rankly they are more productive. Even old professional 
gardeners are victims to this fallacy. There are three 
grand rules in gardening,” he turned earnestly to Mark, 
“ keep your soil well worked, be sparing with manure, and 
use plenty of lime. The true object of manure is not as 
direct food, but to release activity in the soil by fermenta- 
tion. I suppose,” he said, thoughtfully, half to himself, 
“ that is also true of mental nourishment. Reading is only 
of use in so far as it is effervescent and sets free the powers 
of the mind.” 

“ There’s a sort of charm about irregularity, I suppose,” 
ventured Mark. 

“ Never, never,” said the major, emphatically. “ Do 
not believe it for one moment j it is true neither of gardens 
nor lives. That is most fruitful, most beautiful, which is 
most orderly ; filling its appointed place and doing its duty 
to the best of its powers.” He turned and walked slowly 
126 


Love with Honour 

round the beds, stooping now and then to peer into the 
heart of a cabbage. 

“ If you see any of these fellows,” he said, holding up a 
green caterpillar, “please attract my attention; I find that 
my eyes are not so good as they were.” 

At the bottom of the garden, separated from a field by an 
open fence, he stood, his calm features wrinkling up into 
an expression of disgust. 

“ A man like Burrows,” he said, “ is a public enemy. 
You may know a farmer by his borders, and Burrows’s are 
the worst in the parish. It isn’t as if it were a big job — 
just a plough run round the field from time to time. My 
life is one long struggle, so far as this bed is concerned — 
a south border, mind you, the best in the garden — with Bur- 
rows’s filthy couch. It stamps a man’s moral character. 
The pestilent fellow believes in luck. Now, there’s no 
luck in farming, putting aside the weather, which is in 
God’s hands ; nor is it enough to say that a man reaps as he 
sows ; it goes farther back than that. This year’s crop de- 
pends on how you have treated the land for the last ten 
years, what you have taken from it, what you have put 
into it. You cannot begin with sowing and say, ‘I will 
take pains ’ ; it is then too late. But forgive me ; we will 
go indoors and have some tea, unless you would prefer to 
sit out on the lawn ? Pleasanter, perhaps, but the insects 
are a dreadful nuisance. It seems a paradox why they 
were created. I myself believe that they are, like disease, 
a punishment for neglect ; they are always more numerous 
in the neighbourhood of superfluous or decaying vegetation. 
It is the same with the common house-fly ; that, I am sure, 
is encouraged by domestic wastefulness, scraps of food that 
127 


Love with Honour 


might be turned to account for the pig-tub suffered to lie 
about the house.” 

The major’s deliberate articulation was at first a little 
trying ; afterward it had a certain charm like that of quiet 
formal music. On entering the hall Mark noticed a faint, 
spicy, un-English odour. He connected it, after an effort 
of memory, with those stalls tended by sleek, brown gentle- 
men in scarlet fezzes at the Crystal Palace. The place 
was dark, yet cool and airy, the walls and ftoor reflecting 
a remote waxen gleam. There was no trace of anything 
that could be called drapery : tiles, black wood rubbed to 
extremity, here and there a piece of dull native brasswork. 
They passed through the hall into a large echoing room 
flooded with light from two windows reaching from the 
ceiling to the floor. This chamber, far enough removed 
from a drawing-room, was yet hardly a study ; nor were 
there the guns and fishing-rods Mark expected. It was 
neither masculine nor feminine; perhaps the atmosphere 
was ecclesiastical, yet with a hint of administration ; it 
might have been the study of an abbe. The walls were 
treated with an austere decoration in quiet reds and browns, 
large patterns, done in stencil, Mark supposed, by the major 
himself. The two French windows were shielded by 
whispering reed curtains that gave privacy without seclu- 
sion. The room contained only necessary furniture : a 
writing table severely ordered, a chair that could only 
be called easy from its unlikeness to the others, and, in 
a far corner, a prayer table. There were a few engravings 
after Durer on the walls, and in the place of honour 
over the mantelpiece a portrait in oils of a young man 
in military uniform. The major, who returned from 
128 


Love with Honour 


changing his coat, found Mark standing before the 
picture. 

‘‘ My dear friend, the late Captain Dampier,” he said, 
his hand on the bell. Mark nearly smiled j he felt that 
inwardly Major Vassall presented him to the portrait, trust- 
ing he was worthy. He looked again at the picture with 
renewed interest. The face was of a somewhat finicking 
type, suggesting delicacy rather than force of character, 
the face of a theologian rather than of a soldier. The 
light blue eyes were not unkindly, but, together with the 
lines of the long narrow jaw, the pronounced pointed chin, 
gave warning that in a matter of conscience the owner 
would be firm to the point of obstinacy. The whole 
expression was that of a man who, while his breeding 
would keep him from being censorious, would perceive 
every little defect in his associates, and who, under cir- 
cumstances, might be cruel. There was nothing either in 
feature or expression to predicate the obvious emotional 
richness of his daughter’s temperament. 

Major Vassall followed Mark’s examination with an 
eagerness that was almost plaintive. 

The noblest of men,” he said, in his high nasal voice. 
“ I cannot better present him to your imagination than by 
saying that he recalled what one reads of Sir Philip Sidney. 
You hardly know Miss Dampier well enough to recognise 
the little characteristics that were her father’s ; indeed, peo- 
ple who are quite familiar with her fail to recognise them 
in this portrait, though it is a singularly good likeness. To 
me they are very real.” His anxiety to establish the point 
was a little curious. Mark attributed it to a transferred 
paternal jealousy. 

K 


129 


Love with Honour 


The major made his own tea, boiling water over a spirit 
lamp which had evidently seen good service. The copper 
kettle was patched and soldered until it resembled the bar- 
nacled bottom of an ocean tramp ; and the care with which 
the old man handled it convinced Mark that it was a relic 
of old campaigns. He was not disposed to be vexed that 
he himself was momentarily forgotten, being rewarded by 
the play of memory over the other’s face. Major Vassall 
had changed his coat for one of outworn cut an inch too 
short in the sleeves. Mark involuntarily glanced at the 
portrait. The major smiled. 

“You have guessed right,” he said. “ I wear his coat 
as I endeavour to assume his virtues.” But for his neat- 
ness in handling the cups, more than feminine, every move- 
ment thought out as it were, he would have seemed 
absent-minded. Mark would have called the tea weak, 
though he admitted its fine flavour. The manner in which 
Major Vassall drank, sipping reflectively, suggested a crit- 
ical rather than a sensuous enjoyment. He played the host 
with an old world ritual, attentive but not pressing. 

“Try these strawberries, they are La Reine Blanche, 
Take my advice, Mr. Surtees, never buy plants of any sort 
without a name. There is something to be said for breed 
even in a strawberry. It lessens the circle of accidents ; 
given a name, you can predict how the owner will behave 
under varying conditions. You have a known quantity 
against the chances of seasons ; as you may say of a per- 
son who shares your code, there are certain things he will 
not do, come what will.” 

Mark felt that enjoyment of the fruit was almost sacri- 
lege } it was like eating moral precepts, 

130 


Love with Honour 


“ I regret,” said Major Vassall, when they had finished 
tea, ‘‘ that I cannot ask you to smoke indoors ; I find the 
odour of tobacco in a room insupportable. We will take a 
turn in the garden, where you may enjoy your pipe or your 
cigar or whatever you prefer.” 

They went out through the cool, dark hall ; but at the 
door turned to the left instead of the way they had entered. 
For the moment Mark failed to realize they were treading 
on grass, so fine and smooth it was. They passed through 
a low arch in a hedge of yew, trimmed square like a wall, 
and entered upon a flagged pathway flush with grass borders, 
beyond which on either hand were long beds backed with 
hedges of box and yew. Here and there the line was broken 
by cypresses, now black against a limpid sky. The path- 
way gave on a rectangular space surrounded with hedges, 
arched at either angle, and clipped at intervals into little 
turrets. A fountain played in the middle, and the grass- 
plot was broken symmetrically by four beds filled with 
plants, neatly staked and tied. They seated themselves in 
two bamboo deck chairs in a shady corner. The formality 
of the place, the precision of the major’s manner, were 
about Mark like a charm, setting him back into another 
age, whence he emerged rough and uncouth. He suffered 
a feeling of moral untidiness. 

“You’ll think me an officious old man, Mr. Surtees,” 
said Major Vassall, “but you have aroused my interest. I 
would like you to tell me something about yourself and 
your plans of life.” 

Mark readily gave him an outline of his history, but 
explained that his future plans depended upon whatever 
of interest chance threw in his way. 


Love with Honour 

“ Ah, I was afraid so,” said Major Vassall, gravely. 
‘‘ Permit me to go farther and to say that you pride your- 
self on your freedom from convention j is it not so ? What 
you said last night led me to suppose that you had taken 
up an attitude towards life, perfectly natural in an old fellow 
like myself, who has seen things go down, but in a young 
man very sad to observe. Believe me, Mr. Surtees, I have 
seen many fine young men ruined for want of a definite 
object in life.” 

Mark did his best to point out that his object was noth- 
ing less than to demonstrate the folly of civilisation. As 
for the failure of those examples quoted by the major, he 
was of the opinion that it proceeded from “ actual vice or 
bad instincts, throwing discredit on what was in itself a 
right purpose.” But the major shook his head. 

“ Most of our instincts are bad ; it is very unsafe to trust 
to instinct. If we were as God made us, we should find a 
safeguard in religion. Unhappily the fact must be faced 
that in these days few of us are capable of any sustained 
spiritual effort, and the modern monk is one who forsakes 
his post. I except the noble fellows who form brother- 
hoods in our own country ; they recognise the need for 
strenuous intercourse with the world they themselves have 
given up. For the majority, I say, religion has ceased to 
be more than a useful discipline, a morning parade, rightly 
insisted upon, but except perhaps in the case of that curi- 
ous phenomenon of our times — the Salvation Army — not 
based upon profound conviction. No; there is nothing 
left but occupation; joined to hope or ambition, whichever 
you prefer to call it, it is the salt of life. Unless,” he 
hesitated, “ you have deliberately dedicated yourself to the 

132 


Love with Honour 


service of God ? I do not know what your beliefs may be ; 
I myself am a churchman, but, whatever creed you profess, 
you may rely on my sympathy.” 

Mark asserted that he found a sufficiently definite ideal 
in the service of humanity. 

“A snare,” said Major Vassall, “one of those showy 
abstractions, the peculiar temptation of imaginative men. 
There is only one way to serve humanity, and that is in 
your appointed place in the ranks ; keep step, unless your 
circumstances place you in the position of a leader. As 
you stand, you are a deserter.” 

“You’ll at least allow that, in the present state of things, 
I am a deserter from the enemy ? ” 

“ I don’t deny that for one moment ; neither you nor I 
are in a position to judge ; we are in the world, not above 
it. But that is immaterial, the important thing is organisa- 
tion ; your attitude makes for disorganisation. Curious, 
that increased preoccupation with form in literature and 
art should bring relaxation of form in social relations. 
Look wherever you will, you see disintegration ; in the 
state, the family — even the so-called trades unions have 
the same tendency, the breaking up of the community into 
isolated classes. I don’t wish to exaggerate the dangers by 
which we are surrounded, but it is surely a time for every 
thinking man to stick to the colours. This election, now ; 
do you suppose that my support of Sir Francis Arkell is 
due to belief in the principles of his party ? Certainly not ; 
in politics, as in life, one has to be content with some- 
thing that is at least an attempt towards an intelligible 
position, something positive, you understand ? your creed 
is negative.” 


133 


Love with Honour 


“ Positive in so far as I am an observer of things.” 

“ Permit me to say, that unless you intend to use your 
observation to some definite end, you'll see nothing. Not 
only that, but, having cut yourself off from all organic 
relations with your fellow-creatures, you'll infallibly de- 
generate. I have an example before my eyes, one that con- 
cerns me deeply, personally. Fortunately I have every reason 
to believe that circumstances will right that ; there will be 
obligations impossible to evade. Your case is different : as 
you say, you have no ties, no inheritance ; you belong there- 
fore to the dangerous class.'' 

“ I fail to see how I can be dangerous to anybody but 
myself.'' 

“ My dear sir, that is precisely where you are mistaken. 
It is true that you have not the great opportunities for evil 
of wealth or position ; but, as you showed last night, you 
have intelligence and a certain gift of expression. You are 
not in a position to use these gifts to any practical end, you 
can only discourage people. Therefore, I say, get some- 
thing to do, no matter what, but something.'' 

“ The difficulty is,'' said Mark, “ to find something worth 
doing.” Major Vassall smiled ironically. “I don't mean 
that I despise anything,” corrected Mark, hastily, “ but I 
can't work at anything that does not absorb my faculties.” 

“That statement explains more than you think,” said 
Major Vassall, drily. “ Then it was less the desire for 
vagrancy than dissatisfaction with your work that led you 
to take to the roads ? ” 

“ I suppose so,” admitted Mark, reluctantly. 

“ I'm glad to hear it. Had you been the genuine vaga- 
bond, I should have felt some scruples in talking to you as 

134 


Love with Honour 


I have done ; the type has its uses, if only as a warning. 
To put it briefly, you have not yet found yourself.” 

“ I hoped to find myself in solitude.” 

“ A fallacy ; the discovery of yourself, like most other 
great discoveries, is an accident resulting from the pur- 
suit of something quite different. However, you can’t be 
expected to know that at your age. I understand your 
grievance ; it is not uncommon at the present day, and is due 
to the development of intelligence at the cost of character. 
I don’t mean to say that you young men are of lower 
principles, but that the hold upon duty in the abstract has 
been loosened. It leads to a sort of pessimism.” 

“ I don’t think I should describe myself as a pessimist,” 
said Mark, laughing, as he rose to go. 

“Of course not; because you’re better than your word. 
Think it over, Mr. Surtees. I shall be glad to talk to you at 
any time. If I can help you in any way, don’t hesitate to 
ask for my assistance. I’m a sort of Father Confessor to 
the people about here ; they call me Old Ramrod.” 


Chapter X 


O N his return to Mrs. Winscombe’s cottage 
Mark found a letter from Mr. Anthony 
Pembridge awaiting him. 

“ My Poor Mark : — It is with a very heavy heart 
that I write this letter to you. Six weeks ago, if anyone 
had asked me the name of a sound investment for his capital, 
I should have answered, unhesitatingly, ‘ Incas.’ Such 
was my confidence in the company that quite recently I 
myself invested three thousand pounds of my own savings 
in Inca stock. There had been no depreciation, no tailing 
off ; the last dividends were paid in full, and the directors 
announced their confident anticipation of a steady rise. 
Only last week the columns of the daily papers were filled 
with glowing reports on the condition of the Inca mine ; this 
morning those very columns are eloquent over the greatest 
financial disaster of the nineteenth century. 

“ Do not judge me too hardly, Mark ; think of what I am 
suffering. I have betrayed no trust ; it is I myself who have 
been deceived. My agent I trusted implicitly. I had no 
single word of warning. Can you realise what this means to 
me ? I who have never allowed my professional acuteness to 
set a burden upon my conscience as a Christian man. I am 
hard hit, Mark, very hard hit. Your own loss will enable 
you to share something of my sorrow ; we are fellow-suf- 
ferers. Words fail me when I attempt to express my in- 
dignation against the scoundrels who, for their own base ends, 
have wasted the earnings of honest men. There will, of 
136 


Love with Honour 


course, be a rigorous investigation into the affairs of the 
company ; but I cannot hold out any hope that you will re- 
cover more than a miserable fraction of your money. Oh, 
Mark, thank Providence that you are not a married man. 

‘‘ Your broken-hearted friend, 

“Anthony Pembridge.” 

The lawyer enclosed a cutting from a financial journal 
giving details of the collapse of the Inca mine : and, now 
that the fact was accomplished, pointing out the symptoms 
by which would-be investors should have been warned. 

Mark thrust the letter into his pocket, and, muttering 
some incoherent explanation to Mrs. Winscombe, strode out 
of the cottage. Such is the perversity of youth, however, 
that in a little while he felt positively elevated. Not glad, 
but with a serious uplifting, as one made suddenly respon- 
sible ; he was translated at a stroke from the amateur to the 
professional vagrant. He was filled with genuine pity for 
Mr. Pembridge, mingled inconsistently with a sense of 
superiority ; after all, these practical men were not infallible, 
even on their own ground. He remembered Hermann’s 
warning, and reflected that he himself was to blame. It 
was true that Pembridge might be supposed to watch the 
market, but the business entrusted to him was so small that 
the oversight seemed quite natural. Presently the whole 
thing appeared to Mark a judgment for his neglect to com- 
municate Hermann’s suspicions to the lawyer. He was not 
quite sure that he was not morally responsible to other sufferers 
who might have benefited by the warning, and was afflicted 
by the faces of widows and orphans. 

Mark instinctively walked down the hill ; it must be a 

137 


Love with Honour 


retreat for him, he felt ; and, like a good general, he did not 
dwell upon his disaster, but made haste to consider the 
future. He faced the question of work. While independent 
he had amused himself by considering the many pleasant 
ways of gaining a living the country offered. Where were 
they now ? Frankly, so far as he could see, the only rural 
occupation for which he was qualified was the scaring of 
crows. “ Working on a farm ” sounded attractive and 
even practicable, until one considered that the farm labourer, 
unlike the poet, is made, not born. Mark remembered ask- 
ing an old labourer what he earned. 

‘‘ Fowerteen shillings and my cottage so long as I work 
for Gaffer Stanley ; if I change measters out I goes.” It 
was not consoling to reflect that the man was spoken of as 
unusually able, expert in the finer branches of his calling, 
such as hedging and the planting of trees. Mark supposed 
that for ten years at least his own value in the agricultural 
market would be about ten shillings a week. There re- 
mained his trade : the dreary morning in the developing 
room, the blinding stipple of retouching, the snatched meals, 
the society of ‘‘ Miss ” ; no, it was not a cheerful picture. 
He was passing Charlcote House, and the notes of 
the piano coming over the wall ironically suggested all that 
he would have to give up. Mark had no false pride, but 
his few weeks of freedom had awakened in him a taste for 
the society of cultivated people. His inherited instincts had 
been obscured by the knowledge that he had to learn a 
trade, and the stubborn resolve to be contented j but they 
were there, and the gentle influence of the open sky had 
revived them. Looking back, the whole period of his 
apprenticeship to Rangeworthy was artificial, and he took 

138 


Love with Honour 


up his life from the time when he had known the subtle ad- 
vantages of home. It was the atmosphere of the shop he 
dreaded j for the provincial photographer cannot afford any 
preoccupation with his work for its own sake. Mark knew 
that for the future he must be a tradesman ; he had always 
been fairly happy, though his society, but for Hermann, had 
been that of books. He had somehow lost the taste for books ; 
he wanted men and women. Now men and women are 
not for the photographer’s assistant ; he must find his com- 
panions in tradesmen and tradeswomen, a distinction Mark 
knew how to appreciate. 

As if in physical protest against his future, Mark jumped 
a stone wall and struck off across the fields to where the 
Doyn thundered over its ledge. Here at least was freedom 
from the consideration of small profits. The place was a 
Niagara in little. A short distance above, the Doyn was 
joined by a tributary stream, and the confluent waters 
broadened, and dropped over a long perpendicular wall. 
The likeness to Niagara was increased by a miniature 
Goat’s Island breaking the glassy curve; whilst below a flat 
rock was beaten upon by falling water. This was Mark’s 
first visit to the place, and he sat absorbed in its beauty for 
some minutes before he discovered that he was not alone. 
Mrs. Dampier looked at him with a half-smile of recogni- 
tion. He rose to his feet. The woman’s face, so vivid and 
strained, stamped itself indelibly upon his mind. It was 
true that she smiled, but her eyes were dilated with 
unaccountable eagerness and her lips were fixed as with 
wires. Mark, as might be supposed from his circumstances, 
had an exaggerated idea of the aloofness of the well-born ; 
yet here was this woman, aristocrat by reputation, apparently 

139 


Love with Honour 


anxious to ingratiate herself with him. He lifted his hat, 
and with a clumsy apology turned to go. 

“ What is it you want ? ” asked Mrs. Dampier, sharply, 
as if she had released rather than uttered the words. 

“ I did not know this was private property.” 

‘‘ No, no,” said Mrs. Dampier, with an impatient move- 
ment, “ that is not what I mean ; why are you here at all, 
in this village ? ” 

She spoke in a quick undertone, as if afraid of listeners, 
though it was unlikely there could be another person within 
half a mile. Mark was surprised into unnecessary candour. 

“ Entirely by accident,” he said. “ I was on a walking 
tour, and it happened that I had to wait here for money.” 

“ Ah, money,” repeated Mrs. Dampier, with a sudden 
rush of colour into her white face ; “ somebody pays you, 
then?” 

‘‘ I don’t understand — ” 

‘‘You are not a detective ? ” she asked fiercely. 

“ A detective ? ” he echoed stupidly. 

“ I do not mean a policeman,” she said, as if anxious to 
correct an impression. “ Sometimes people employ private 
agents. Who sent you here ? ” 

“ Nobody sent me here ; as I explained, I was on my way 
to Severncester and happened to be delayed here.” 

She laughed with a relaxation of feature, dreadful by 
contrast, yet, Mark observed, how prettily. 

“ I thought perhaps — the election, you know ; some- 
times there is a fuss about people being entitled to vote ; I 
thought you were getting information. Please forgive me.” 

The lie was ghastly in its recall of a forgotten coquetry, 
the woman privileged by her beauty to lie and be the more 
140 


Love with Honour 


charming for lying. Mrs. Dampier, laughing again, looked 
at Mark eagerly, as if to gauge his credulity. 

Are you staying here ? ” she asked, with a masterly 
relapse into mere politeness. 

I can hardly say, probably not for many days.” 

She took him up with quick interest. 

“No,” she said, “it is really not worth your while; 
there is nothing of interest in the neighbourhood, and a 
little farther away there is so much.” She spoke in a 
babbling monotone, as if urging him then and there to be 
gone. “ If you go southward there is Somerset and Devon, 
indeed the whole West Country. But, I forgot ; you said 
you were on your way to Severncester. Then you will 
pass through the Cotswolds, the most beautiful part of the 
country. I know the Cotswolds well ; this is the best time 
of the year to explore them ; it is all high up, you know, 
not shut in like this miserable place.” 

“ Don’t you like Charlcote ? ” asked Mark, politely. 

“ I hate it; I don’t know why I was such a fool as to buy 
the house ; it is killing me ; you don’t happen to know any- 
body who wants to buy a house in the country, do you ? ” 

Mark shook his head. 

“ I’m afraid not,” he said, smiling at the sudden ques- 
tion. “ I don’t know many people, and my friends, 
unfortunately, are not in a position to buy houses.” She 
affected to make the question careless. 

“ I don’t know that I really would sell Charlcote, if it 
came to the point. Sometimes I fancy it does not suit my 
health to live here ; however, I have stood it for twenty 
years. You are from London, are you not ? ” 

Mark explained that he was not a Londoner. 

141 


Love with Honour 

“ You do not speak like a Severnshire man. Pardon my 
curiosity, but when one lives in the country one sees so few 
people to talk to. How did you come to know Mrs. 
Winscombe ; are you related to her ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” answered Mark ; “ she is entirely a stranger 
to me.” 

“It seems odd that you happened to stay with her; does 
she usually take lodgers ? ” 

“ Fve never heard her mention the fact ; surely you 
would have heard if anyone had stayed there before,” 
said Mark, coldly. He hesitated to call Mrs. Dampier 
unladylike, because he felt sure she was under some com- 
pulsion which drove her outside herself. 

“ Who, I ? ” she said, whitening. “ I know nothing 
whatever about Mrs. Winscombe. That is why I asked 
you ; she is a woman I cannot understand.” 

“ She strikes me as uncommon,” said Mark, thought- 
lessly, and immediately regretted the remark. “ I mean,” 
he added, “ one would say she has had experiences one 
would not expect.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” asked Mrs. Dampier, anxiously. 
“ What experiences ? ” 

“ I mean that for a person in her position she is 
singularly well educated,” he answered, almost irritably. 

“ I think she must have let rooms at one time,” said 
Mrs. Dampier; “that would account for her superior man- 
ners. Please don’t ask her, though ; that sort of woman is 
easily offended. People about here rather spoil Mrs. 
Winscombe.” 

“I think it would take a great deal to spoil Mrs. 
Winscombe,” he retorted. She laughed. 

142 


Love with Honour 


“ Perhaps that is true ; my daughter thinks there is 
nobody like her. Still, one cannot but feel that there are 
things a person in her rank of life should not meddle 
with.” 

‘‘ You don’t like Mrs. Winscombe ? ” said Mark, bluntly. 
Mrs. Dampier laughed uneasily. 

“ I should not put it so strongly ; really, what is she 
to me that I should like or dislike her ? I suppose she 
is a very respectable woman, and more intelligent than is 
usual with persons of her class. Has she ever spoken to 
you about her past life ? ” 

‘‘ No,” he answered, uninvitingly, ‘‘ beyond saying that 
her husband has been dead some years, she has never 
referred to herself.” 

Mrs. Dampier hesitated, stirring the weeds with her 
foot. 

“ Do you think she ever was married ? ” she asked, with 
a disagreeable laugh. 

“ Mrs. Dampier,” said Mark, gravely, “ that is a very 
unjust suggestion. Mrs. Winscombe is a good woman and 
my friend.” 

“You don’t understand the reason for my question,” 
said Mrs. Dampier, impatiently. “My daughter Laura 
goes to her house a great deal, and it is only natural that I 
should be anxious. I know nothing against the woman, 
but I am convinced there is something odd about her 
history. It is said that her husband deserted her.” 

“ He must have been singularly wanting in taste, then,” 
said Mark, drily. “ Mrs. Winscombe must have been a 
very beautiful girl ; she is beautiful still.” 

“ Oh, do you think so ” 


143 


Love with Honour 

‘‘ Most certainly ; don’t you ? ” 

“ No ; I can’t say that I admire that dark, tragical style 
of face — they usually have such dreadful tempers,” she 
added illogically. Mark v^^as interested into forgetting the 
bad taste of the ^vhole discussion. He failed to see what 
object Mrs. Dampier could have in disparaging, not only 
Mrs. Winscombe, but her personal appearance, to a perfect 
stranger; but he recognised that for some reason it was of 
importance to this woman what he thought and how he 
behaved. 

“ I agree with you that Mrs. Winscombe’s type is 
deeper than the — the — ” he was in a difficulty, for Mrs. 
Dampier was fair. She laughed nervously. 

“You are certainly not gallant; but please don’t think 
of a comparison between us.” 

Mark had not thought of any such thing, but it struck 
him vividly that precisely that comparison was in her 
mind. His recognition made him shy of the subject, and 
he led off. 

“ Deeper in its capacity for feeling ; for happiness, for 
suffering.” 

“ Suffering ! ” she cried, suddenly aged and worn, “ what 
can she have suffered ? What makes you think that Mrs. 
Winscombe has suffered ? ” 

“It is difficult to put into words — her tenderness, the 
expression of her face when she is alone.” 

“ You are a student of faces ? ” 

“ I am a photographer.” 

“ Oh ! ” There was a world of relief in the exclamation. 
“ Why didn’t you tell me before ? ” was implied. Mrs. 
Dampier was for the moment thinking naturally, her mind 
144 


Love with Honour 


left off its ferret-like run to and fro, and worked con- 
secutively. 

‘‘ Then I suppose you come in contact with a great 
number of people — of every class, I mean ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; in a large business one gets everybody. Of 
course,” he explained, “ I have only worked in a pro- 
vincial town.” 

“ Where did you say ? ” 

« Chelford.” 

“ Chelford ? It is not a garrison town, is it ? ” she 
asked carelessly. 

“ No, entirely agricultural. There are some celebrated 
schools there, you know, and a great many better-class 
people live there for that reason.” 

Mrs. Dampier appeared to be checking off information 
in her mind. Mark was about to turn away, when she 
asked, ‘‘ Are you musical, Mr. Surtees ? ” The question 
was obviously prompted by the wish to know something 
behind the answer. 

‘‘ Not as you would understand it,” he said stiffly. 

“ I ? Oh, I am not musical at all. I would almost go 
so far as to say I dislike music *, well, hardly that, but I 
should agree with the man who called it the least unpleasant 
of noises. My daughter is very musical.” 

“ Yes ? ” said Mark, politely. 

“ It is singular, too, because neither Captain Dampier 
nor I gave any thought to the subject. It proves how 
little truth there is in the theory that musical talent is 
necessarily inherited.” 

‘‘ But perhaps farther back ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, no ! ” she said earnestly. “ I don’t suppose there 
L 145 


Love with Honour 


ever were two families with less aptitude for music,” The 
insistence was peculiar; it was as if she were disclaiming 
some disease. 

“ You have mixed with musical people ? ” pursued Mrs. 
Dampier. 

“ Not exactly. I have a friend who plays the violin ; 
all my acquaintance with music comes from him, I think.” 

“ I suppose he plays sometimes at people’s houses, balls 
and so on ? ” 

Mark laughed. ‘‘ No, I think not,” he said, “ he may 
have done so before I knew him, certainly not since.” 

“ Does your friend write music ? ” 

He has never published anything, 1 should rather say 
he extemporises.” 

“ I suppose,” said Mrs. Dampier, with an earnestness 
above the subject, ‘‘that people who extemporise may, 
without knowing it, make use of tunes they have heard — 
in the street, perhaps ? ” 

“ I should think that was very likely.” 

Mrs. Dampier was silent; she seemed better at ease, 
though at the same time more conscious of the singularity 
of the encounter. Mark seized his opportunity. 

“ I feel I ought to apologise for trespassing here.” She 
came out of her reverie. 

“ Oh, please don’t speak of it, Mr. Surtees. I am very 
glad I met you. You will understand my anxiety to hear 
about Mrs. Winscombe from an unprejudiced person ? 
I go out very little, and I am afraid Laura is left pretty 
much to take care of herself. Please don’t repeat any- 
thing I have said to you.” 

It was not until Mark had regained the road that he was 
146 


Love with Honour 

able to find a key to the impression Mrs. Dampier made 
upon him. He conjured up a picture of the woman, her 
furtive hands, the contrast of her face, haggard in repose, 
artificially bright while speaking. He arrived at a con- 
ception of fear. Yes, that was it; Mrs. Dampier lived under 
a shadow, and somehow connected him with what she 
feared. She had been trying to ascertain whether he were 
knave or fool. He disliked the woman intensely, chiefly 
because she was Laura’s mother. Such a girl should have 
a queen for mother, a creature above everything ignoble. 

Mrs. Dampier watched him across the fields. 

“ He is a liar like the others,” she murmured bitterly. 
She drew her shawl about her with a little shiver, and 
turned her face in the direction of Charlcote. 


147 


Chapter XI 


M ark had an almost superstitious regard 
for Hermann Fischer’s judgment in the 
practical affairs of life without realising how 
this implied his own incompetence; and 
his opinion was certainly not disturbed by so startling a 
proof of Hermann’s foresight as the loss of his income. 
He therefore wrote to him for advice, not without a 
sneaking sense that the fiasco removed the necessity for 
any explanation as to his movements. “You see,” he said 
in effect, “ the matter is decided for me.” Hermann’s reply 
was an offer of work. Would Mark care to supply him 
with landscape negatives ? There seemed to be a demand 
for large work in platinum and carbon. Hermann said 
that his present circumstances did not allow him to offer a 
very good salary, say twenty-five shillings a week, but that 
there was every reason to suppose the thing would grow. If 
Mark liked the idea he could carry it out without interference 
to his mode of living. Hermann would of course supply 
apparatus and materials, but he suggested the advisability of 
Mark finding a fixed headquarters where he could develop 
his negatives, etc. 

The suggestion was so happy that Mark wrote an in- 
dignant letter, taxing Hermann with offering him charity. 
Hermann’s answer was a request that he would come to 
an early decision, since, if Mark did not wish to undertake 
the work, it would be necessary to advertise in the photo- 
graphic journals for another man. Mark was only half 
148 


Love with Honour 


convinced, but accepted the offer, hiding his gratitude behind 
a somewhat lordly letter of conditions. 

“ If you are disposed to give me a free hand, ” he wrote, 
“ ril not only satisfy you but enjoy myself into the bargain. 
If, on the other hand, you want me to, do the stale old tricks 
over again, I may as well say at once that I prefer stone 
breaking. I am only just beginning to know how rotten 
the ordinary landscape photograph is, and I see that the 
fault is not with the medium, but the method. As a matter 
of fact, I don’t remember that there are any landscape 
photographs in existence except local ‘ views ’ and the 
faked ‘ art photographs ’ of exhibitions. Let us come to an 
understanding upon that question: with your permission 
we’ll have no trick printing, no stock skies or clouds put in 
with cotton wool on the negative. I propose an honest 
photographic record of the thing as it happens. There’s a 
lot of material about here, and I don’t think I could do 
better than exhaust this district first, and so save the ex- 
pense of hiring conveyances to take my traps about. That 
brings up the question of tools. I should prefer to work 
whole plates with a single landscape lens. I think you will 
agree with me that this avoids the more aggressive vices of 
the machine. At any rate it keeps one from Zolaism and 
the wide-angle ; also the size does away with the tempta- 
tion to enlarge. If you’ll take my advice, you won’t print 
anything bigger than you can get direct from the negative, 
and stick to platinum and carbon. Let me know what you 
think ; write at once, as I am anxious to get to work ; the 
more I think of the idea the better I like it. Terms you 
offer will suit me very well.” 

Hermann replied with an inventory of the tools he was 
149 


Love with Honour 

sending. “ Go ahead,” he wrote, “ I leave everything to 
your discretion.” 

Mark settled with Ainger for the hire of a room on the 
ground floor at three shillings a week ; and immediately set 
about fitting up a partition with shelves and a sink. There 
was a little difficulty about the water supply, overcome by 
the ingenious arrangement of a hogshead and syphon. 
Mark’s deftness with tools set Ainger thinking. 

“You would be of more assistance to me than a paid 
man,” he said, “you respect your material, and that is what 
I can never teach them to do. They always think of the 
cupboard doors, and not of the beautiful wood they are 
using, or the expensive colours.” 

Though not a skilled workman, Mark had an instinct for 
“joints,” which, as Ainger averred, are a positive and not 
a comparative matter. 

“ There is no such thing as a good joint or a bad joint 
in cabinet work. It is a joint or not a joint at all. They 
taught me that when I was a boy ; and many a blow I had 
before I learned my lesson. Nowadays they teach lads all 
about geometry and the expansion of timber; but they do not 
teach them how to make a joint.” 

Major Vassall looked in to find Mark hammering and 
whistling. “ Ah, this is better,” he said, “ but you did not 
tell me you were so good a carpenter.” He ran his hand 
over the tongued and grooved partition. “ It is a very good 
piece of work ; now, do you mean to tell me that you take 
no pleasure in doing this ? ” 

“ As a means to an end, ” Mark admitted. When the 
matter had been explained to him, the old man bristled with 
elation. 


Love with Honour 

“ An admirable idea, ’’ he said ; “ you have resumed 
organic relations with your fellow-creatures ; in one particu- 
lar it is exactly what I should have desired for you ; you 
will not see the end of your work, you will be a link in a 
chain. I congratulate you on your reenlistment.” He 
bowed and withdrew ; on the threshold he turned : “ I may 
say,” he added with quaint stiffness, “that I am not at 
all sorry you are going to remain in the neighbourhood. ” 
It was not much, but Mark knew Major Vassall well 
enough to feel complimented. Taking up his familiar 
craft under altered circumstances, Mark was obliged to 
admit that his dislike to it was entirely due to his surround- 
ings at Rangeworthy’s. With his first negative was real 
excitement, that breathless anticipation of the next stage 
which should reassure any man who fears he has mistaken 
his calling. Perhaps he was helped by contact with people 
intelligent, but ignorant of the details of his trade. The 
frank wonder of Mrs. Winscombe during a lesson in de- 
velopment was contagious ; and Mark found himself aban- 
doning a trite technical attitude for one of enthusiastic 
demonstration, 

“ That is beautiful,” said Mrs. Winscombe, suddenly, as 
Mark, with brown, dripping fingers, held up a negative in 
the doorway, scowling the while. 

“ Is it ? ” he laughed ; “ I call it beastly flat.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean the picture, but what you said about 
over-exposure. The plate is dull and faint because the 
camera has looked too long on what you were taking, isn’t 
it ? Don’t you think that explains why folks don’t get a 
very clear idea of what is always before their eyes ? 
I should like to know whether the opposite is true j when 

151 


Love with Honour 

a picture is under-exposed are the dark parts very dark and 
the light parts very light ? ” 

“Yes; the contrasts are exaggerated.” 

“ Do I tire you ? ” asked Mrs, Winscombe, twisting her 
apron nervously. 

“ By no means ; you interest me.” 

“Well, isn’t an under-exposed negative exactly like a 
hasty judgment ? If one waited a little, one would be able 
to make excuses for people because one would understand.” 

“ One could fill in the half-tones, so to speak,” said 
Mark, falling into the trap. 

“ I suppose that is what I mean,” she answered ; then, 
smiling in an embarrassed way, she added, “ I cannot 
abide that you should misjudge one that I love.” With 
feminine instinct, she allowed him no rejoinder by leaving 
the cottage. Mark set down his negative and considered. 
It was no use trying to mistake Mrs. Winscombe’s allusion, 
and he admitted that, so far as Laura Dampier was con- 
cerned, he was “ filling in the half-tones.” He had uncon- 
sciously arrived at a conception of her by which she was 
identified with all he strove to record. For, after a feverish 
hunt for subjects, ending in failure, he had finally escaped 
from the obsession of the picturesque, and settled down to 
a pursuit of conditions rather than of things. He lay in 
wait for hours to catch the right mood of the weather; 
a silhouette of pine tops, while all else was drowned in 
pale vapour ; a drift of shadow against the hillside ; the 
delicate veining of light and shade in a distance — little 
problems overlooked by a hundred for one who responded. 
The individuality of his method kept Mark occupied and 
happy, leaving but little time for thinking about people. 

152 


Love with Honour 


Mrs. Winscombe's remark pulled him up suddenly to the 
importance of Laura Dampier in his daily work. He was 
not yet come even to a personal liking for her ; she stood 
for a fine standard, some one to be consulted in a choice 
of two points of view, the final critic of his finished work. 
She was of the country and knew it ; in a very little while 
she was the country. Laura herself was frankly interested 
and unconscious of any sentimental possibilities; indeed, 
both were so set on the work that neither he nor she 
thought of each other. 

It is, however, due to a misconception of his meaning 
that Shakespeare is understood to say that women are won 
with the tongue ; acting upon this supposed advice, many 
excellent lovers come to grief. If young men realised 
how far some accident of appearance may go — even with 
the most difficult of her sex — this would be a silenter 
and more decorative world. Laura Dampier would have 
been both incredulous and annoyed had she been told that 
her most vivid picture of Mark Surtees was impressed 
upon her mind whilst watching him working in his shirt- 
sleeves in Ainger’s workshop. Mark had strong, brown 
arms, and the action of planing is an excellent opportunity 
for display. There is something very honest and whole- 
some about the smell of wood, and, after the quavering 
uncertainties of her own home, Laura found it restful to 
come here. Cuthbert Arkell had unwittingly made her 
ready for Mark by overdoing her with subtleties ; he went 
just beyond her intelligence and bored her. The fact that 
she was being pushed in his direction by her mother 
aroused a latent sense of coquetry, presently leading her 
out of her absolute control. After her early meeting with 

153 


Love with Honour 

Mark, Laura had formed the vague opinion that he was 
wasting himself. She told Major Vassall so, and he agreed. 
He, however, went further and proposed remedies ; she 
left it so, rather resenting the major’s plans because they 
narrowed her conception of Mark. 

“ He’s the very best type of the skilled workman,” he 
said ; “ a man like that should be caught and made to 
teach his fellows. Never doubted there was good in the 
movement, if one could get hold of the genuine stuff. 
Most of ’em pick up only the evils of education.” 

“ I shouldn’t say he was precisely that class ; if so, it is 
a very remarkable one.” 

“ It’s a great treat to get hold of a tradesman with other 
ideas than those of bettering himself ; this chap seems to 
have no social ambitions.” 

“ Why need he ? ” 

“True, true; if you’re of the blood, nobody can alter 
it,” said Major Vassall, looking at her proudly ; “ if you’re 
not, what’s the use of trying ? But when you come to 
think of it, the mere recognition of this, in these days, 
stamps a man as remarkable.” 

“ You think he is remarkable ? ” 

“ Obviously ; wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. I’d like 
to see him infecting others, though ; you’ve got to remember 
that it’s England we’re after saving. I’m afraid he’s a 
deserter.” 

“ He isn’t alone, then.” 

“ No ; but everybody hasn’t his unique opportunity. 
He kncnvs the class on which everything depends ; his 
social betters tell in other ways.” 

“ They say they do.” 


154 


Love with Honour 


‘‘ They do whether they will or not ; they influence by 
what they are, the middle classes by what they do.” 

With greater intimacy some of this was retailed to 
Mark ; in giving him the major’s idea of him, Laura un- 
consciously included something of her own. 

‘‘ I think you are too easily satisfied.” 

Mark was preparing broad strips of oak for a picture 
frame ; he looked up and along the piece he held in his 
hand. 

‘‘That’s about as hard a thing as you could say,” he 
observed complacently. 

“ Of course I don’t mean it in that way. I mean that 
you are fit for something better than what you are doing.” 

“ Better than fresh air, sunshine, milk, honey, and long, 
long sleeps ? ” 

She turned away petulantly, then with a quick, almost 
shrewish, recovery, “You must have had some disappoint- 
ment.” 

“ No, I assure you,” he laughed. “ I’ve been a singu- 
larly fortunate person. What made you say that ? ” 

“ Because you are so supine.” 

“ Supine ? ” he cried ; “ wait until there is something I 
want that has to be fought for. Supine ! ” 

“ Isn’t there anything ? ” she persisted, a little consciously. 

“ Supine ! ” he snorted, putting his pieces of wood 
together. 

“ You haven’t answered my question.” 

“ Sorry. Well, I would like to record the essential fact 
of every day of my life here. You’d be surprised how I’ve 
taken to this ; it began as a joke, now it’s a monomania. 
There’s money in it too.” 


155 


Love with Honour 


‘‘ That proves I was not unjust ; if you were a person 
of character, you wouldn’t let this man — what’s his name 
— pocket all the money.” 

“ He pays me and takes all the responsibility.” 

“Yes,” she said with measureless contempt. 

“ Think of the discipline,” he said wickedly. 

“I won’t allow you to make fun of Major Vassall. He 
has a very high opinion of you.” 

“ Higher than I deserve.” 

“ Undoubtedly ; what he says really amounts to what I 
have been telling you.” 

Mark sighed. “ Isn’t it better to be comfortable ? ” 

“ Yes, if all of you can be comfortable. As it is, only 
your lower nature is satisfied ; your higher faculties are 
crying out.” 

“ I have observed that my higher instincts will be 
satisfied when I can take a perfect negative.” 

“I suppose if a person wanted to flatter you he would 
call you a philosopher. Oh, you make me angry ! ” She 
turned away with a gesture of weariness, and began to 
fidget with the pots of paint on Ainger’s bench. Mark 
went on with his work, whistling softly to himself. Laura 
turned round. 

“ Ah, that reminds me. Where did you learn that thing 
you are always whistling ? It has got into my head and 
annoys me.” 

Mark related the circumstances under which he had 
heard Danvers sing his “ Morning Song.” “ It has stuck 
to me ever since,” he said. 

“ Did you happen to whistle it while passing Charlcote 
on the night you came here ? ” 

156 


Love with Honour 


Mark laughed. ‘‘Yes,” he said, “ I was rather down at 
the time, and it helped to keep my spirits up.” 

“ Then it was you,” murmured Laura, flushing ; “ how 
very singular.” She had a better memory than Mark, and 
became self-conscious. The unintended freedom of his 
greeting to her as she looked out at the door was half dis- 
pleasing, as suggesting a want of reserve in herself, half 
attractive as a piece of romance ; it was she who had wel- 
comed Mark to Charlcote. As a result of her reflections, 
she became less frank, and for some time did not come near 
Ainger’s workshop. Not so Cuthbert Arkell, who made 
haste to give Mark the benefit of his opinions. 

“ I was afraid this would happen,” he said, referring 
to Mark’s occupation. “ I felt sure you were not big 
enough.” 

“ It is a weakness, I suppose,” Mark admitted cheer- 
fully ; “ but, like the other wastrel, I cannot dig and am 
ashamed to beg.” 

“ Why should you not beg ? I looked upon you as a 
new type, shaking off the dust of towns and villages, and 
living your own life. You have unusual advantages, no 
ties or conventions to observe. I envy you.” The sigh 
that accompanied the last words implied the extent of 
Cuthbert Arkell’s responsibilities. 


157 


Chapter XII 


T he Arkells used much ingenuity in taking the 
plain look off the cult of the mother — a beauti- 
ful convention, by them frittered away, as the 
plum-pudding of our fathers is become a thing 
with scalloped edges. Their intercourse was usually by 
feints and flank movements ; they avoided a definite state- 
ment as an indecency. In company they had a delicate 
understanding of glances and little grimaces, a comment on 
the bluntness of their neighbours j a little more and they 
had whispered in corners. When Cuthbert, going into his 
study after breakfast, found the Morning Post folded down, 
and a copy of Burke upon his desk, he at once appreciated 
his mother’s refinement. Each kept a Burke hidden from 
the other like a vice understood but never obtruded. “One 
of the things one doesn’t talk about, like bunions.” Cuth- 
bert smiled, picturing his mother’s pretty gesture, slapping 
down the book, with : — 

“ There’s its morning’s work, bless it,” for it was part 
of the game to speak of the other in the neuter third person. 

The study itself was the prettiest of conventions. 
Neither believed in it for a moment, though they agreed in 
assuming it the shrine of gigantic labours. Occasionally, 
Mrs. Arkell would bounce in, her arms akimbo, and 
exclaim : — 

“ Oh, the dear humbug ! ” Then they would go off 
into fits of laughter, and Cuthbert would chase her out, 
kissing her behind the door. Usually, however, Cuthbert 
was left undisturbed to the sonnet, too intimate even for 

153 


Love with Honour 


his own eyes, the drama beyond words. When Cuthbert 
emerged from his alleged commerce his mother would meet 
him, her face reflecting all the pains he had not taken ; 
then she would shake her head grievously and stroke the 
pallor that was not of the muses. Every morning she 
placed his letters on the desk. If they were addressed in a 
feminine hand, she would grace them with a large note of 
admiration, thus If the paper were noticeably dainty, 

or scented, she would even pencil ‘‘ naughty ” across a 
corner of the envelope ; for it was a point in the game to 
assume dealings with Anonyma. Fewjnen of his age were 
more austere than Cuthbert Arkell; but, as his mother 
observed : — 

‘‘ I can’t have you be a smug ; you must be potentially a 
rip, or I shall despise you.” Once Mrs. Arkell sulked for 
three weeks over a woman she knew did not exist ; the af- 
fair was so subtle that it is uncertain in whose imagination 
the lady arose, but there actually were letters, pink and 
patchoulied. They celebrated Cuthbert’s emancipation 
from her airy chains with brown sugar on their bread and 
butter. 

The room was worth notice. Begun austerely, it was 
as if scribbled over with feminine impertinences. The bust 
of Wagner wore a satin slipper cocked behind one ear, 
and the foils were fettered with blue ribbons — Mars in 
the toils of Venus. The pictures — many from “ Le Nu 
au Salon ” — were generally turned face to the wall j and 
once a penny cane was suspended in the hanging wire 
of the most flagrant. 

Cuthbert took up his paper with some curiosity, and 
so used was he to his mother’s method that he read 

159 


Love with Honour 

half through the journal before he came to the paragraph 
intended. This he took with half an eye, as it were. 

“We regret to learn that Lord Belsire is lying seri- 
ously ill at his country residence, Shotworth in Severn- 
shire. His lordship has been in failing health for some 
time; and we understand that his physicians do not take 
a hopeful view of his condition.’’ 

Cuthbert opened Burke where suggested by the tiny 
paper knife. On consideration Cyril, Freke Dampier, 
fifth Lord Belsire, was peculiarly negligent or unfortunate ; 
he had no heir. Cuthbert turned to the cover of his 
Burke, and found it was the current edition. It might 
be supposed that his lordship could do as he pleased with 
his own, yet certain of his property, notably Shotworth, 
was entailed. His forefathers had given Lord Belsire 
every chance, for the entail was not confined to the male 
line. Unless there were collateral branches of the family, 
Shotworth would lapse to the Crown. 

Cuthbert shut the book and smiled. He knew Shot- 
worth and could make a good guess at its rent roll — 
say ;£'8ooo a year. He supposed it was not intended 
he should “ study ” this morning, and he went at once 
to his mother’s room. As he opened the door he stood 
for a moment and sniffed. 

“ Oh, bad, ” he said, “ shocking bad.” 

“ I only had one, ” cried Mrs. Arkell, ostentatiously 
hiding a cigarette case Cuthbert himself had insinuated 
into her room. 

“ Headaches and antipyrin, ” said Cuthbert, with terrible 
severity. 

“ Oh, these vices ! ” She really had a pretty voice with 
i6o 


Love with Honour 


a little hoarse break in it, very nicely managed. Major 
Vassall called it a bleat. 

“ If youVe going to be unkind, I’ll say the Dreadful 
Thing,” menaced Mrs. Arkell. Cuthbert stopped his ears. 

“ I’ll say it. I’ll say it, ” carolled Mrs. Arkell. Cuth- 
bert made as if to fall fainting. 

“ Sir-Cuthbert — Ar-kell ! ” shrieked his mother. Cuth- 
bert flung a cushion at her. 

“ I’ll be good, ” she gasped ; then with a sudden break 
into sobriety, observed, “let us be serious,” patting the 
sofa by her side. Cuthbert seated himself; his descent 
into sanity was less obvious. 

“ Lydia Ferrars is a very fine girl, ” he began, apropos 
of nothing, apparently ; the context was quite clear to 
either. His mother moved impatiently. 

“ In almost every sense of the word, ” she said, “ but 
I didn’t send for you to talk about Lydia Ferrars. Be- 
cause you have to do the crude thing, there is no need 
for you to do it obviously. I may as well tell you that 
I have considered Lydia Ferrars so thoroughly that I have 
nothing to say about her. She is exactly the sort of 
wife for a country baronet of refined tastes ; in fact, you 
might consider her the abstract Lady Arkell. I think 
that dismisses Lydia Ferrars.” 

She spoke rapidly and with astonishing vehemence 
considering the woman. Cuthbert grumbled. 

“ It is loathsome,” he said, “ to have to consider the 
subject at all.” 

“ My dear Cuthbert,” said his mother, “ it cannot be 
more distasteful to you than it is to me. I recognise 
that it must be done, and brutally at that. We’ve got 

M i6i 


Love loith Honour 


to face the fact that you’ll succeed your uncle as Sir 
Cuthbert Arkell. It’s a horrid thing, and what’s worse, 
Bearswood won’t enable you to carry it off tolerably. To 
make the position anything but banal you need at least 
;^4000 a year. How are you going to get it ? ” The 
last sentence was almost vicious. 

“ I suppose,” said Cuthbert, yawning, ‘‘ when I find 
the thing is inevitable I shall turn to and make some 
money.” Mrs. Arkell laughed ill-naturedly. 

“ Sometimes your humour is so exquisitely funny, 
Cuthbert, that there’s almost the risk it will be thought 
unconscious.” 

“There’s a great deal might be done in literature or 
politics or even finance, ” reflected Cuthbert, “ if one could 
only brace oneself up to take the plunge.” Mrs. Arkell 
glanced at him curiously and not very kindly. They had 
so long evaded each other that it was a discovery for her 
that, in some ways, Cuthbert was lacking in intelligence. 
She decided not to argue the matter of professions. 

“ On the whole,” she said, “ marriage is the most satis- 
factory way out of the difficulty. You see you settle the 
other question, that of keeping up the name, at the same 
time. There are many reasons why I should have preferred 
some one else ; but,” she patted Burke, “ this is a chance that 
cannot be overlooked.” Cuthbert’s silence puzzled his 
mother ; she had always considered him more than willing, 
if necessary, to fall in love with Laura Dampier. She was 
acute, but she had not perceived the peculiar turn of his 
vanity, his dislike to see his influence questioned, much less 
endangered. The situation would have elated her, and 
called out her stronger qualities. 

162 ' 


Love with Honour 


“ Don’t you think,” said Cuthbert, at length, fidgeting 
with a penholder, ‘‘ that the thing is rather wild-cattish ? 
Such a sell, you know, if one committed oneself and the 
thing didn’t come off.” 

“ Safe as houses,” said his mother. 

“ But are you sure of that ? ” 

“ My dear Cuthbert, to the best of my knowledge, — and 
that’s worth something, you know, — the only thing that 
stands between Laura Dampier and ;£'8ooo a year and 
Shotworth, is a certain estimable old nobleman now on his 
last legs. When he goes, it will drop into her hand. 
There’ll be a little formal delay to make sure, but it’s hers.” 

What are your grounds for being so sure ? ” 

“There’s nobody else; Captain Dampier was the nearest 
male relative, — Belsire’s second cousin, to be precise, — 
and he’s dead ; the entail passes to his daughter.” 

“ There’s the look of the thing,” objected Cuthbert. 
Mrs. Arkell turned up her eyes. 

“You’ve been the companion of her childhood, the 
sharer of her scraps; it’s the most natural thing in the 
world, the sort of thing everybody expected. The only 
wonder is you’ve waited so long. Therefore, I say, get it 
arranged so that I can talk about the engagement before 
the other thing comes as a surprise, as it will to most 
people.” 

“ Don’t they know ?” 

“ I’m sure the Dampiers don’t, because I’ve sounded 
them. They claim the connection, of course, but they 
don’t know how near Laura is to the estate.” 

“And Vassall?” 

“ Being the sort of thing he, as her guardian, ought to 
163 


Love with Honour 

know, of course he doesn’t know. Some fool is sure to 
point out the fact to him ; therefore, I say, make haste. 
I don’t wish to call you stupid, Cuthbert, but don’t you see 
that the important thing is that you should engage yourself 
to Laura Dampier before you know of her good fortune ? ” 
Cuthbert sighed. 

“ She don’t give me a chance,” he said sulkily. 

“ The mother creature will help you.” 

‘‘ Vassall won’t, and he has the stronger influence.” 

“ He’ll not stand in your way.” Cuthbert looked at her 
questioningly. 

‘‘ No, I’ve been studying a pretty little situation all on 
my own account. Though Vassall — to give him his due 
— is too fine a gentleman ever to allow Laura to know it, 
he chafes every day more and more against the association 
of the girl with her mother. It’s a sort of jealousy, I sup- 
pose, unless there really is something not quite nice about 
Mrs. Dampier. Now, he isn’t in the least anxious for 
Laura to marry, but he would welcome any change that 
removed her from the atmosphere of her mother’s house. 
Marriage is the only possible way. Of course, in his 
opinion, there isn’t a man living good enough for his ward ; 
and where none is good enough you are as good as any ; 
better, in fact, since he knows your antecedents and char- 
acter are beyond reproach : and the personal choice he leaves 
entirely to Laura, who already likes you.” 

“ Yes, but Laura herself is the difficulty.” 

“ But why ? Saints above us, you men have no enter- 
prise nowadays ! ” She laughed, as at some reminiscence. 
“ Why, the girl never sees another man ; you’ve everything 
in your favour.” 


164 


Love with Honour 

“Laura’s got a fad just at present,” murmured Cuthbert, 
sheepishly ; he was ashamed to admit to his mother what 
she already knew, that he felt serious misgivings about 
Laura’s interest in Mark Surtees. Mrs. Arkell decided to 
stimulate her laggard son by making more of the fact than 
she believed it to deserve. She affected to look perturbed. 

“ My dear Cuthbert,” she said compassionately, “ how 
very unpleasant for you.” 

“ Of course it will wear out ; it’s bound to. Still, it ties 
my hands for the time.” 

“ You see,” said Mrs. Arkell, reflectively, “ the unfortu- 
nate thing is that, except for a few provincialisms which 
neither Laura nor Major Vassall are likely to notice, the 
man himself would pass. I mean, of course, apart from 
his circumstances, which count for nothing when a girl 
imagines herself in love. I may tell you, Cuthbert,” she 
added, with a touch of malice, “ I have noticed the little 
comedy. Personally I don’t think it is desperate ; there’s 
one thing I want to know, however, does he respond ? ” 

“ Don’t think so ; apparently he hasn’t got beyond being 
afraid of her. In any case he wouldn’t presume ; the beast 
has the instincts of a gentleman, whatever he is.” 

Mrs. Arkell laughed softly. 

“ Well, Cuthbert,” she said, “ I’ll do all I can for you. 
In the meantime I advise you to deal with the man. Let 
me point out the things you can’t do : speak to him, depre- 
ciate him to her. These are fatal unless managed by a 
person of very great experience. But you can work upon 
Major Vassall — only you mustn’t mention Laura. If Laura 
suspects persecution, even from him, she’ll kick over the 
traces.” 

165 


Love with Honour 


Then what am I to do ? ’’ said Cuthbert, helplessly. 
Mrs. Arkell quivered with impatience. 

“ Simply get hold of something that will damn Surtees in 
Major VassalPs estimation ; not in connection with Laura, 
for heaven’s sake; if Major Vassall thought your opinion 
of her admitted the possibility of her stooping to a stray 
photographer, he’d kick you out of the house. Neither 
must you discuss the man — dirty your fingers. Just a light 
casual statement, only gospel truth.” 

“ I believe there is something,” said Cuthbert, viciously, 
‘‘ he’s so jolly close about his history.” 

“ Find out what it is, then.” 

“We are very good friends, unfortunately.” 

“ Be better ; anything like a quarrel would be an obstacle 

— and humiliating besides.” 

“ It seems rather a dirty thing to do.” Mrs. Arkell 
shrugged her shoulders. 

“Why? All I suggest is that you go back until you 
find the disgraceful thing. It’s there beyond any doubt ; all 
men over twenty ha^^e done something, unless they are 
worms — which he isn’t, let me tell you. You simply take 
the disgraceful thing, furbish it up a bit, and leave it lying 
about where those concerned — Major Vassall in particular 

— can’t fail to break their shins over it. You needn’t say 
you found it.” 

“ I wish one could be certain about Shotworth,” said 
Cuthbert, weakly. Mrs. Arkell smiled malignantly. 

“You mean you don’t want to damage your particular 
male code of honour for nothing ? Still, what would you 
have? You can’t go and ask the people bluntly, seeing 
that they don’t know, or rather if they did know, everything 

' i66 


Love with Honour 


depends on their not knowing that you know,” she said 
incoherently. ‘‘ I think it's as safe as can be,” she added, 
after a pause, “ and it's a chance in a thousand, remember 
that, Cuthbert. Even supposing the remote possibility that 
some forgotten Dampier should turn up — ” They looked 
at each other and then away. 

“ No, Cuthbert j I wasn't going to suggest that we remove 
him. Though, really,” — she fanned her face with a book — 
‘‘ you make me feel ready for murder.” 


Chapter XIII 


M ajor VASSALL sat on the stile giving on 
the Camp hard by Mrs. Winscombe’s cot- 
tage. She, her heart in her eyes, wistfully 
following the last flutter of the children 
through the trees, gave him, as a justice of the peace, her 
dutiful attention. 

“ Young England, Mrs. Winscombe, the mothers of the 
race to be.” 

She caught her breath in almost a sob. “Yes, sir, that 
is what frightens me.” 

He looked at her thoughtfully, though kindly. “ I do 
not think you need fear for your part of the work.” 

The consciousness of what he left unsaid made her 
anxiously try to follow his thoughts. 

“ I had them at three years, sir,” she pleaded faintly, 
as if in extenuation of what he implied. 

He shook his head, smiling sadly. “ Even if they came 
into your hands as soon as they were born, there is what 
came before, what they inherit from their parents. Do 
you know anything about the previous history of your 
little ones ? ” 

“ No, sir, thank God ! ” 

“ Why do you say that ? ” 

“ Because it would be no use ; it would not help me 
to know that their parents drank or lived evil lives, but 
only make the responsibility heavier.” 

“You have all the authorities against you, you know,” 
said Major Vassall, with a smile. “ The theory is that 
x68 


a 


Love with Honour 


knowledge of a person’s forbears helps one to avoid proba- 
ble evils.” 

“ I think it would drive me mad if I dwelt on that,” she 
said. “ The memory of things would make me lose hope ; 
I would rather look forward. It is a miracle — not that 
I have done anything wonderful — but that, while so many 
are left to their fate, I should be allowed to do what I can 
for these three.” She hesitated. “ Do you think that 
there are others perhaps more in want ? ” 

Major Vassall laughed outright. ‘‘You’d like to adopt 
them all ! ” 

“ Of course, I know that would be impossible, sir,” she 
answered seriously, “ but sometimes it is almost more than 
I can bear. The whole world seems full of little crying 
children, beaten, starved, sold into sin j whenever I go into 
Barstow I hear nothing but the children crying, and when 
I open a newspaper there it is again. I wake sometimes 
in the night, and stop my ears against their crying ; it is the 
most dreadful sound in the world. What makes it all the 
more bitter is the thought that perhaps in saving one you 
take the chance away from another perhaps in worse need.” 

“I should try not to think about it; there’s that risk in 
all human affairs. We are, mercifully as you say, not 
permitted to know; we have sealed orders so that we may 
preserve our strength for the nearest duty. You remember 
the old saying that, if we were allowed to know the future, 
few of us would have courage to face it ? That is yet 
more true of the present. I should be sorry to depress 
you, but you have to remember that in all probability the 
birth of each of these children was a wrong in itself. 
That gives you some idea of the odds against you ; don’t 

169 


Love with Honour 


make it harder for yourself by brooding over the evils 
outside your reach.” 

“ But you think it is worth trying ? ” 

‘‘Worth trying? My good woman, it is a plain duty 
that we — those of us who hear the cry — should put out 
our hands to save.” 

“ And don’t you think we shall be allowed to do some 
good ? ” 

“ Most certainly ; indeed, it is not a matter of opinion, it 
is beyond question ; only, having some idea of the pit they 
came out of, you must not be depressed if they don’t turn 
out angels all at once. You should be satisfied with even 
a negative result.” 

“ Satisfied,” she murmured. 

“ I understand you,” he said, “ of course you can’t be 
satisfied. I mean that it is not as if they came to you 
blank for you to write what you please. What is written 
is written by the mere fact that they are the children of 
their parents, and you may consider yourself fortunate 
if you can even partially erase that writing.” 

They were silent for a moment. Major Vassall never 
knew how Mrs. Winscombe pitied him, how she spared 
him. He looked at her suddenly : “You never had a child 
of your own, Mrs. Winscombe ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

Her momentary hesitation arrested his attention. He 
did not for an instant doubt her word, but he wondered 
what the reservation implied ; something, he surmised, too 
sacred to enquire into. The childless man was able for a 
moment to appreciate the suppressed birth pangs of the 
childless woman. 


Love with Honour 

“ It was perhaps better,” she murmured. 

“ It is hard to say that,” he said ; ‘‘ but I think I under- 
stand what you mean: your joy did not come to you, but 
you have to go out and find it. I believe that is the way 
all the best things are done ; in the quest for our own hap- 
piness, if it is pure, we do God’s work by the way. . . . 
Pardon me for asking you, but what put it into your head 
to take up this noble work ? ” 

Indeed, I do not know, sir, unless it was to make 
amends for my own sin.” 

“ I’m sure you never did anything very dreadful, Mrs. 
Winscombe.” 

“ I broke my mother’s heart, sir,” she said simply. 

“Forgive me,” he murmured, “I did not wish to recall 
anything that will cause you sorrow.” 

“ I think I should like to tell you, sir j you have such 
confidence in me that I feel you ought to know everything 
about me. It was my marriage ; my head was turned with 
my own vanity and love of praise. I was in service, then, 
and it was, for one in my station, a good match from a 
worldly point of view : my husband was the landlord of an 
inn at Malton-on-Sea. My mother went down on her 
knees and begged me to give him up, but I would go my 
own way ; I found out when it was too late that he was a 
very bad man, and one that took a pleasure in leading others 
astray. He died four years after our marriage.” 

“You can hardly blame yourself for your husband’s 
character.” 

“ No, sir ; but think of the awful risk I ran of bearing 
children to such a father and in such a place. When, after 
he lay dead, I thought of all the wickedness I had seen, 
171 


Love with Honour 


of the women who came to the place to drink, of the men 
I had helped to neglect their homes, — for my husband was 
bad enough to make me talk to the customers, and make 
myself agreeable to help the sale of the drink, — I began to 
hear children crying, and it seemed to me that they were all 
my children. I went nearly mad at the time, and they had to 
send for my brother Joseph to come and live with me. When 
I got better I decided to give up the license, and for a time 
we kept a lodging-house together, while Joseph worked at 
his trade. He did not like the place, and seven years ago 
we moved here. Then I heard that the guardians of the 
parish trusted little ones to those who would have them ; 
and I thought that perhaps if I had living children about 
me it would stop the sound of the crying. That is my 
story, sir.” 

“ I think you have wiped out whatever mistakes you 
made in your earlier life.” 

“ Do not say that,” she said, in real distress. “ It was 
begun in selfishness, as a refuge from myself ; God has 
allowed these children to be a great blessing to me.” 

“After all,” said Major Vassall, rising to go, “ there is a 
bright side to it ; one has to remember that good as well as 
evil is transmitted. Indeed, one feels sometimes that there’s 
a risk of interfering too much ; there are some natures with a 
natural instinct for good, and perhaps it is better to stand on 
one side.” 

“ But there are evil influences to be kept away.” 

“That is comparatively easy.” — She looked at him 
doubtfully. 

“ Mr. Surtees was telling me about his photographs j how 
the picture was hidden until the — developer, I think he 

172 


Love with Honour 

called it — was poured on. I sometimes think that children 
take ideas that neither we nor they know anything about 
until some time of trial makes them appear.’* 

‘‘ Ah, you must pity an old man’s coarser senses,” said 
Major Vassall, laughing. “ I have to go by an old soldier’s 
training, and,” he straightened himself, “ the tradition of a 
fine race. It is really remarkable,” he said, with a naive, 
confidential change of tone, it is wonderful, to see fine 
traits developing mysteriously. It puts one’s fidelity to 
shame sometimes ; one had forgotten until reminded by the 
inheritance.” 

She, being a woman, was unable to keep from personali- 
ties so near her heart. 

‘‘ Miss Laura is nearly of age, sir ? ” 

‘‘ On the twenty-first of February,” he said, with ludi- 
crous alacrity. 

“We cannot hope to have her always with us.” 

“I believe you’re a match-maker, Mrs. Winscombe,like 
the rest of ’em.” 

“ No, sir, I dread the idea of losing her.” 

“ There never will be anybody fit to black her boots,” he 
said, with impulsive candour, “ the best we can hope for is 
a straight, clean gentleman. They’re a poor lot, Mrs. 
Winscombe,” he added, with a whimsical smile, “ vicious 
cubs, feather-brained cranks, bloodless monks. There used 
to be a few men — • in the Regiment. If I had the training 
of the men and you the women ? ” He Jaughed at himself, 
though it was easy to see he spoke from conviction. “ I’m 
afraid you encourage me to be a bore, Mrs. Winscombe,” 
he said, touching his hat as he swung over the stile. As 
the major walked across the Camp, enjoying the fine scented 

173 


Love with Honour 


air, he was unconsciously using the woman he had left as 
a standard. 

‘‘ I suppose Dampier knew best,” he thought, dispassion- 
ately, “ I have no right to judge ; I never did understand 
women.” 

Mrs. Winscombe stood for a moment gazing across the 
Camp, her shoulders bowed, her hands playing with a corner 
of her apron. What had been for him an abstract dis- 
cussion was for her poignant with personal feeling. She had 
been for a long time making up her mind to speak, but 
wanted courage for the cruelty of it. To-day the words 
were on her lips, but she could go no further than her own 
story, hoping, yet fearing, that he would seize on some- 
thing in what was for him but a meaningless tale. 

Perhaps the most uncomfortable hours of Joseph Ainger’s 
peaceful days were those in which his sister asked him out 
to take the air. In spite of his fine sense of colour, his 
genuine love of beauty, he was never really at ease except 
indoors, or, at most, sitting on the bench immediately out- 
side his cottage. He detested walking, and could not be 
induced to travel five yards without an elaborate ritual of 
silk neckerchief and Malacca cane. Not only did he shrink 
from the exercise, but he knew that whenever Elizabeth 
asked him out it was because she wanted to talk; and when 
Elizabeth talked her unflinching choice of disagreeable sub- 
jects kept him in purgatory. During the whole afternoon 
Mrs. Winscombe had been thoughtful and moody until, 
about nine o’clock, she put on her bonnet and walked over 
to her brother’s cottage. Grumbling but unresisting, for 
he really feared his sister, Ainger made his toilet and joined 
her. They traversed the short lane in silence, and at the 

174 


Love with Honour 


end turned to the left, following the extreme circuit of the 
Camp. As usual, Joseph was the first to speak, his queru- 
lous pipe forming the same contrast in sound, against her 
deep cadences, as his short, fidgety steps did against her 
stately walk. Joseph had a vague townsman’s fear of the 
night, looking to the right and left, and peevishly demand- 
ing an explanation of every sound. 

“Well, what is it?” he said, at last. “I can’t abide 
being kept waiting for anything unpleasant.” 

She sighed. 

“ It is the same trouble, Joseph,” she said ; “it is so hard 
to know what is the right thing to do.” 

“ I cannot understand, Elizabeth, why you should be for- 
ever fretting and worrying over other people’s concerns. 
Why can’t you be content with your own troubles ? ” 111 

temper kept his voice level and distinct. 

“There’s a wrong to be righted, and I can’t rest easy in 
my mind.” 

“Well, why need you bother me ?” 

“ Because you know what I know.” 

“ What do I know about it ? I mind my own business 
and let other people mind theirs. As like as not Major 
Vassall knows as much as we do.” 

“ Never,” she said quietly, but emphatically, “ never.” 

“Well, then,” said Joseph, irritably, as if to close the 
subject, “ there is no harm done. ” She took him up pas- 
sionately. 

“ For shame, Joseph ! He is certain to learn how he has 
been deceived, and it will kill him.” 

“ Then, it is not your business to be the executioner.” 

“ If I speak now, the blow will be lighter.” 

175 


Love with Honour 


Joseph stopped and leaned on his cane. “Upon my 
word ! ” he cried. “ Do you mean to tell me that you are 
such a fool that you will start a scandal about what happened 
more than twenty years ago? ” She disregarded his question; 
they moved on and walked about a hundred yards in silence. 

“ Do you think,” asked Mrs. Winscombe, presently, 
“that Major Vassall could have made a mistake about the 
portrait ? ” The question touched Joseph on his con- 
science. 

“ That is nonsense, Elizabeth,” he said stubbornly. 
“ Of course it is a portrait of Captain Dampier.” 

“ Then it was not he who stayed with us at Malling- 
on-Sea.” 

“ What of that ? Besides, he did not call her Mrs. 
Dampier; he called her — upon my word I trouble so little 
about it that I cannot remember what they did call them- 
selves.” 

“ Mr. and Mrs. Allen.” 

“ Very well ; so far as you know they were Mr. and Mrs. 
Allen. It was not your business to ask your lodgers for 
their marriage lines, and I do not see that you have any 
concern with other people’s opinions of what is right and 
wrong. People will have their fling when they are young ; 
for myself I cannot imagine how folks will put themselves 
about, and run all manner of risks, for what they call love ; 
but you cannot expect all the world to be of one mind, and 
so far as I am concerned, they are welcome to do as they 
please so long as they do not bother me with their affairs. 
You bother me, Elizabeth, and I do not like it. Why 
should you make a scandal now ? Mrs. Dampier’s husband 
is dead, and why on earth you can’t let the woman alone 
176 


Love with Honour 


passes my comprehension ; she has never done you any 
harm.” 

“ I am not thinking of her,” she answered ; then, with 
a wariness unusual in her, she asked : — 

“ When was it the Allens came to us. I mean, what 
month of the year ? ” 

“ Good gracious, Elizabeth, how should I remember 
It might have been April, it might have been August, for 
anything I know or care. And now will you let me go in ; 
the night air never did agree with me. I shall take a chill. 
What was that ? ” 

“ ’Tis only a squirrel, Joseph ; we will go in.” 

When they had gone there was a movement in the 
upper branches of the chestnut under which they had been 
standing, and Mark dropped to the ground. He had had 
no intention of playing the eavesdropper, though he cursed 
the ridiculous motive that had caused him to climb into the 
tree. For some days he had been trying to select a point 
from which he could take a photograph of the low stretch 
of country around Charlcote House ; a distant view framed 
in the crepe-like boughs of the larches that grew close 
together upon the broken ground sloping down to the lane 
beneath. The difficulty was the very number of the trees; 
try how he would there was always a hole cutting the 
picture in two. Returning from a late walk, as he crossed 
the Camp, he conceived the project of hoisting his camera 
up into a tree whence he might obtain a more open view. 
The idea so took his fancy, that, instead of waiting for 
morning he at once climbed into a chestnut, and by the 
diffused light of a clouded moon endeavoured to make out 
the lie of the country. He had no difficulty in finding 

177 


N 


Love with Honour 

Charlcote House, and the lighted windows drew his attention 
from his purpose to the more subtle problem of the human 
beings within. He remained on his perch for about a 
quarter of an hour, staring at the windows as if, by mere 
concentration, he could call up the images of mother and 
daughter. During this time Mrs. Winscombe and her 
brother had approached soundlessly over the soft grass, and 
were immediately under him before they resumed their 
conversation, and he was aware of their presence. With 
the first surprise of their voices he was about to call out ; 
but some puerile disinclination to put himself in an absurd 
light kept him silent, imagining that they were still moving 
and would quickly pass out of earshot. The first words he 
caught were of Mrs. Winscombe’s allusion to the portrait, 
and, though he tried to lose the rest of the conversation, 
words and phrases came up to him with disquieting in- 
sistence. All was to him vague and incoherent, yet, when 
they had gone, and he had descended, his vexation at having 
heard was overcome by the stronger sense of impending 
trouble. In spite of his facile assertions against social 
difference, Mark had a stubborn instinct for breed, and any 
sullying of a fine tradition afflicted him with a personal 
shame. His negative dislike for Mrs. Dampier became 
sharpened into a bitter contempt ; the exact measure of her 
lapse he could not sound from the broken phrases that had 
filtered up to him through the branches ; but he knew that 
she had failed of the family honour, and that she had reason 
to be afraid. Any pity he might have felt for her was pre- 
vented by hot anger that Laura should be exposed to 
infamy ; for the first time the girl appealed to him as one 
needing protection, and the conception endeared her. 

178 


Chapter XIV 


C UTHBERT ARKELL and Mark Surtees were 
warily taking the measure of each other. As 
yet they had agreed to ignore that by which 
they considered themselves, their relation to 
Laura Dampier; though Cuthbert, with finer training in 
self-possession, was able to discuss women in the abstract, 
and even to take a pleasure in the exercise. He affected 
to envy Mark his simpler circumstances. 

“ I wish I had been kicked out at an early age to shift 
for myself,” he said. ‘‘ One has acquired the taste for 
so many things that there seems no chance of getting, 
unless,” he laughed, ‘‘one marries money.” 

Mark tilted the negative he had flooded with varnish, 
holding it by one corner between his left forefinger and 
thumb. He allowed the varnish to flow to the corner he 
held, then up and across the negative, down the opposite 
side, and finally drained it off the lower right-hand corner 
into a bottle, rocking the plate gently the while. The 
whole action was expressive of detachment from the matter 
of conversation, and Mark’s smile followed the angles of 
the movement with irritating deliberation. Arkell had 
reckoned on a sentimental protest. “ This sort of smug,” 
he thought, “ always professes an ideal view of sexual re- 
lations,” but Mark was too cautious to betray any feeling. 
He held his plate over a paraffin lamp, and, when he had 
dried it off, looking along the surface and testing it gingerly 
with his finger tip, placed it on end in a corner. 

179 


Love with Honour 


‘‘ Money ? ” he said thoughtfully, “ yes ; if one wants 
things I suppose one must pay for them, and it is only fair, 
after all, that so many estimable qualities of mind and body 
should have their price.” The inversion was unexpected j 
but Cuthbert kept his composure. 

‘‘That is a sound commercial view at any rate,” he re- 
torted, with genial emphasis, “ but I was hardly putting it 
so low as that. I prefer to think more generously ; here 
is a woman with, say, five thousand a year, and eager, though 
crude and untrained, powers of enjoyment. She doesn’t 
know how to make use of her advantages, but would like 
to learn. Of course, there are plenty of people willing, 
hungry, in fact, to teach her ; I don’t mean vulgar thieves 
only, but cranks of all sorts. When one considers the 
perils by which she is surrounded it seems to me the 
decentest thing for some eligible man — of her own class 
goes without saying — to take her in hand and marry her.” 

Cuthbert had more than a suspicion that Mark shared his 
knowledge of Laura’s possible inheritance ; he wished, with- 
out naming her, to suggest his proprietorship and hint that 
his motives were disinterested. Mark took up another nega- 
tive, warmed it, and placed it lovingly against his cheek. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it seems to me a very good opening for 
a chivalrous young man ; with five thousand a year to ex- 
periment upon one could avoid all those paralysing situa- 
tions where one has to consider the expense. No doubt 
the girl would be properly grateful.” 

Cuthbert adroitly shifted the responsibility of the argu- 
ment. 

“ You have hit upon what really is the economic relation 
of the sexes in other things besides money,” he said, with 
i8o 


Love with Honour 


spirit. In all her qualities, intellectual, emotional, and phys- 
ical, woman represents the wealthy person who knows noth- 
ing of the market. She requires an agent, a broker, so to 
speak, between her and life j it is a weakness, due not only 
to education, but to the whole circumstances of her exist- 
ence. She can’t, unless she puts herself outside the pale, 
‘ realize herself,’ as the financial Johnnies would say, until 
she marries. This is a mistake ; and every talented woman 
— it is a duty she owes her future husband as well as to 
society in general — should put herself unreservedly into 
the hands of some competent man to help her to develop 
her possibilities.” 

“ I feel sure her future husband would entirely concur 
in the arrangement,” said Mark. 

“ My dear chap,” said Arkell, plaintively, ‘‘ you grossly 
misunderstand me. We have surely survived that stage ; 
one may consider the ape and tiger dead — at least among 
the people who matter, the educated classes. I believe, 
though,” he added, as one asking a question, ‘‘ that these 
prejudices survive in a lower stratum. I fancy I’ve heard 
that if you take a grocer’s daughter to the National Gallery 
marriage is insisted on ; isn’t that so ? But I’m talking now 
of people of average cultivation. For example, — to take 
an individual case, — I consider that the man who marries 
Laura Dampier — and one might do worse — owes me a 
debt of gratitude. She’s a girl with a distinct personality, 
but crude and unformed; or rather she was until I took 
her in hand.” He looked at Mark over the cigarette he 
was lighting, but the allusion missed fire. Cuthbert was 
not experienced enough to read the significance of Mark’s 
persistent ignoring of the individual example. 

i8i 


Love with Honour 

‘‘Now that,” said Mark, reflectively, “would be a suitable 
and probably a lucrative profession — ‘Trainer of Young 
Females/ What,” he asked gravely, “ would you undertake 
to turn out a marriageable girl for ? Of course,” he added, 
“ the idea would have to be modified for special cases ; you 
could hardly pursue the same plan of education for the wife 
of a bishop as for the future partner of a sporting peer.” 

“ Average gentlemen,” sighed Arkell, “ are pretty unani- 
mous as to the qualities they expect in their wives. How- 
ever, what you say proves that you have failed to understand 
me. I am hardly surprised ; I admit that I am in the habit 
of thinking ahead of people. What you say about pay- 
ment — of course one’s remuneration would be the pleasure 
one derived from the girl’s society. This you see entirely 
eliminates the commercial idea ; that would be intolerable. 
Good Lord ! think of the horrors one would have to undergo 
if one attempted the daughters of suburban people. No, that 
wouldn’t do at all. But, as I was saying, Laura Dampier 
is a real experience ; in her case one ought not to aim at 
marriage — she is fit for something finer ; she has the true 
artistic temperament with all that is implied by the term. 
Have you heard her play ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Mark, taken off his guard. Arkell 
removed his cigarette from his lips, and opened his eyes. 

“ Oh, you have been to the Dampiers’ ? I beg your par- 
don ; I didn’t know that you were on visiting terms with 
them.” 

“ Of course I’m not,” said Mark, confusedly. “ I’ve 
never been to the house, but when I have been passing I’ve 
heard the piano going, and concluded that it was Miss 
Dampier playing.” 


182 


Love with Honour 

“ I thought perhaps they had asked you to photograph the 
house ; everybody is anxious to help you on. But that’s 
quite another thing — hearing from the outside ; the effect 
is confused by the things about one. One needs to sit 
quietly mot et toi in a darkened room. Of course, as yet, 
Laura’s playing is too terrible, quite impossible, but she has 
the temperament ; it’s interesting to watch the dawn of 
appreciation. You must hear her; I’ll take you there some 
day.” As Mark did not reply to his invitation, Cuthbert 
continued : “ I can’t think, by the way, where Laura got 
her temperament. From what Vassall says, Dampier must 
have been pi, and the mother is unimportant. It’s odd how 
all the heredity theories are upset; to be consistent Laura 
should have been the daughter of a poet and a ballet dancer ; 
she has the typical amoral character. Of course you 
know that any woman who is going to do anything in the 
arts must be — I don’t say she need actually step over the 
line, but potentially, you understand ? ” 

I’ve heard that said, but I don’t believe it,” said Mark, 
a little hotly. The unformed fear of what he had overheard 
a few nights ago made him resent a suggestion that might 
be founded on fact. Cuthbert was interested. 

“ I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, that I am ahead 
of my generation on the woman question. Woman, I take 
it, beyond her mere utility for continuing one’s personality, 
is essentially a minister of pleasure — don’t hold up your 
hands and talk of the unspeakable Turk, but hear me out.” 
He waited for Mark’s protest, but was disappointed. ‘‘ I 
can hardly hope,” he continued, “the average Briton to 
understand that any relapse into the Oriental slough is im- 
possible. My outlook is essentially modern, as I said, too 

183 


Love with Honour 


modern. You’ll remember that the Hetaira comprised all 
the intellectual women of the day ; we want to get the same 
thing refined, because the modern man will have risen 
superior to his senses in the ordinary meaning of the word. 
One sees that already in cultured people ; of course the pro- 
letarian snorts about loveless marriages and all that, but the 
idea of living apart seems to me fine.” 

The future man will have killed the ape and tiger, as 
you say,” observed Mark, with every appearance of rev- 
erence. 

‘‘ Did I say that ? ” asked Cuthbert, incredulously. “ I 
should apologise. I intended no slight to your intelligence. 
The man had a pretty gift of verbal music, but the social 
degradation caused by his opinions is incalculable. Of course 
we shall change all that.” 

Mark did not care to show that he found the discussion 
offensive. He judged rightly that the shortest way with 
Cuthbert Arkell was to refrain from exhibiting any surprise 
at his most extravagant statements. He took up his last 
remark with an appearance of serious interest. 

“ Indeed,” he said, ‘‘ do you intend to wait until you get 
into Parliament, or shall you work gradually by means of 
pamphlets and so on ? Rather a good idea, a little society 
of choice spirits sworn to the reformation of women.” 

Cuthbert reddened, and eyed Mark suspiciously. 

That’s frivolous,” he said shortly. Of course I can’t 
expect you to have given the care and study to the 
question that I have, but I would like to point out that my 
views are based upon scientific principles. You can’t go 
far wrong, you know, if you build upon indisputed facts. 
What I meant was that Tennyson and the vast crowd of 

184 


Love with Honour 


those who take him for gospel made the mistake of 
supposing that woman per se is an intellectual being. 
Consequently many years have been wasted in developing a 
purely hypothetical creature. Take her for what she is, — 
that her distinctive character is emotional, — and you start 
on a sure basis, sound scientifically and artistically.” 

‘‘ It seems to me,” said Mark, earnestly, ‘‘ that the most 
satisfactory way would be to call a committee of experts 
composed of F.R.S.’s and R.A.’s ; would you include 
Parsons too ? ” 

“ That is, of course, the bourgeois view — committees. 
No, one works more subtly. The necessary thing is to 
realise for oneself that woman will reach her highest de- 
velopment through and by her emotions. Like all great 
ideas, it is quite simple. The difficulties are in the applica- 
tion. It requires very keen perceptions to determine the 
precise bent of the individual woman ; whether pictorially 
in dress and household decoration, or lyrically in music and 
movement. Broadly they are all lyrical : it is a beautiful 
thought;” he took out his notebook: ‘‘Woman is 
essentially lyrical.” 

“ Doesn’t strike me as particularly new,” said Mark. 

“ There isn’t anything new, my dear chap ; our business 
is to formulate, to give point to vague common ideas. 
Most people would agree with me, only they haven’t 
the brain to be conscious of it. It is a commonplace that 
even in their misdirected efforts in literature women are 
least contemptible when lyrical. Sappho, Elizabeth Barrett, 
Christina Rossetti — their lyrical moods are quite tolerable. 
My difficulty is that there’s nothing to guide me; as a 
science it is entirely new. No one, so far as I know, has 

185 


Love with Honour 


deliberately set about teaching a woman to be herself. 
Many have tried, are trying, to teach woman to be what 
she essentially isn’t — a rational being. There’s always 
the fatal risk, too, of falling in love with her ; one knows 
the end of that.” 

“ That seems to me perfectly scientific and consistent, 
a trick of Nature to get her work done.” 

Cuthbert shook his head with a sad smile, suggesting 
bitter experience. 

“ ‘ For all men kill the thing they love,’ ” he quoted ear- 
nestly. ‘‘ Miraculously true ! Detachment in this, as in 
everything else, is the prime necessity. Keep clear from 
the material j in this, as in all great art, our object is less 
creation than release — the release of the latent woman 
from habit and false training. You remember how Blake 
said that the Nike — probably you only know her as 
Venus of Milo — was not made, but set free from the 
block?” 

“ I congratulate you,” said Mark, replacing the cork in 
his bottle of varnish and carefully putting his negatives 
together, “ you have found your vocation, a modern 
Perseus. That is a great thing; most of us have to ex- 
periment, and, as your pet aversion puts it, ‘follow false 
fires ’ ; I am more than interested.” 

“ Of course,” said Cuthbert, “ I shouldn’t think of 
talking to everybody like that ; you are the only man I 
know of sufficient intelligence to follow me ; I’m delighted 
to have met you. ... As I said, I’m fortunate in my 
subject ; Laura Dampier has personality ; it will be some- 
thing to remember that I made her. I should like you to 
study her and tell me what you think.” 

i86 


Love with Honour 


‘‘ I’m hardly likely to have the opportunity.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I don’t think Miss Dampier cares for my society.” 

“ What a very Philistine thing to say. Besides, I have 
reason to know she thinks a lot of you.” 

Mark was enraged ; it seemed as if, even supposing the 
statement were true, that Laura’s appreciation took a lower 
character coming from Cuthbert’s lips. 

“You don’t mind my saying something?” pursued 
Cuthbert. “ Laura thinks you snub her ; don’t you like 
her ? ” 

Mark laughed awkwardly. “ That seems to me beside 
the question,” he said, “ we are not likely to meet upon 
equal terms.” 

Arkell made a gesture. “ That wouldn’t weigh with me 
if I felt attracted toward a woman.” 

“ I didn’t say I felt attracted,” said Mark, shortly. 

“ I beg your pardon j I’m sorry if I’ve touched on a 
sore point. I assure you you have my sympathy j I shall 
respect your confidence.” 

Since there seemed no way of shaking him off, Mark 
proposed a walk. 

“ By all means,” said Cuthbert. “ This utilitarian 
atmosphere is rather stifling. How do you get on with 
Vassall, by the way ? ” 

“ Very well,” said Mark, wearily. 

“ Don’t you find him rather a bore ? ” 

“ Not by comparison.” 

“ I forgot ; I suppose you had rather a stodgy time before 
you came here. But I referred to Vassall’s aggressive 
philanthropy ; he won’t let people alone. He tried to get 
187 


Love with Honour 


me to help with a rifle corps, or some such piffle. I told 
him I thought it rather a pity to interfere with their inter- 
esting vices; I very much prefer standing them drinks. 
He’s well-meaning, but terribly crude. Dear,” he sighed, 
“ what a lot of crude people there are in the world. There’s 
my uncle ; you’ve heard the result of the election ? ” 

« No.” 

“ Green, by a majority of 375,” laughed Cuthbert, gently. 
‘‘ I’m afraid Major Vassall will be horribly disappointed.” 
“Y-es; by the way, if it isn’t a rude question, my 
people have an idea you worked for Green ; I don’t mean 
ostensibly, but in a quiet way ? ” 

‘‘ That’s quite a mistake,” said Mark, stiffly. He was 
acutely annoyed by a statement so difflcult to meet. 

“ Of course ; I said so ; but I’m glad to have yOur denial, 
all the same. So very banal. Everybody is interested in 
you, you know. I may tell you that my own opinion has 
always been that you came a cropper over some woman ; 
don’t talk about it if you’d rather not.” 

They passed through the gate on to the high road. 
A few yards away, Mr. Barker, in the valour of recent cups, 
lay on his belly and girded at society. His more philosoph- 
ical beast had drawn the cart to the grassy margin of the 
road, with one wheel sunk into the ditch, and browsed 
recklessly. A sudden jerk of her head caused an extra 
jangle of wares in the cart, and Mr. Barker looked up. 

Wot O, Mr. Shirty ! ” he cried. “ ’Ow’s the missus 
and kids ? Got a match on yer ? ” 

Mark bit his lips ; the meeting was singularly malapropos, 
and he felt Cuthbert’s eyes on him. He recognised bitterly 
the inconvenience of an indefinite status, and something of 
188 


Love with Honour 


his mood must have appeared in his manner as he produced 
a match. 

“Yah,” ejaculated Mr. Barker, drawing a long pull. 
“Shirty by name. Shirty by nature; ’oo gammoned the 
cop ? that’s wot I want to know.” Mark was for passing 
on, but Mr. Barker continued : “ Wot’s your ’urry ? Set 

down an’ tork; sorry I can’t offer you afternoon tea.” 
Then, seeing that his invitation was not accepted, “ Aow ! 
can’t stop to speak to an old friend, now you’re in with 
the haristocracy. Good Gawd ! ” he turned up his eyes, 
“ bit different from where I see you last.” 

Cuthbert enjoyed the situation ; he was inclined to linger. 

“ Cheerful Helot,” he said, “ I like to study filth sunning 
itself. F riend of yours ? ” 

“ I ran against him coming down here.” 

“ Ran against ’im ? ” Mr. Barker sat up fiercely. “ ’Oo 
give you a lift when you was dead beat ? Ran against ’im ! 
Swine ! ” 

“ Seems to have a grievance against you,” said Cuthbert, 
as they went down the road. Mark refrained from giving 
any explanation, but felt vaguely uncomfortable. There 
was no reason for it, but his manner suggested to Cuthbert 
that, for Mark, Mr. Barker was an unpleasant survival. 
Their walk was not a brilliant success, and when Mark 
had returned, Cuthbert thought it worth while to seek out 
Mr. Barker. He found him asleep, and his patient steed 
landlocked in brambles. He stirred the man with his foot. 
Mr. Barker sat up, and renewed his profanity apparently 
where he left off; he was hoarsely sober. Then he recog- 
nised Cuthbert. 

“ Good evenin’, my lord,” he said. Cuthbert nodded. 

189 


Love with Honour 


“ Want to buy a flour dredger or a toastin’ fork ? ” 
Cuthbert shook his head. 

‘‘Like to take my picture, mebbe ? No ? Jest for the 
pleasure of my sassiety ! Ow Lord,” said Barker, dusting 
his knees and addressing the sky, “ wot wiv giddy ’usbings 
an’ bleedin’ dooks, you’re coming it strong. Barker. Sorry 
I can’t stop,” he said, with a drop into mere insolence; 
“ see you later.” 

“ Look here,” began Cuthbert. 

“ I’m lookin’,” said Barker, “ ’ard.” 

“ I want to speak to you.” 

“ Sech a honour, but, unfortunately, other engage- 
ments — ” 

“ Don’t be a damned fool,” said Cuthbert. “ See this ? ” 
He held up a sovereign. Mr. Barker shaded his eyes with 
his hand as the shipwrecked sailor does in melodrama. 

“ Most remarkable like a thick ’un,” he said, “ s’welp 
me ! ” Coming nearer — “ It are a thick ’un.” 

Cuthbert put it into his hand. 

“ Change, me lord? Well, dessay I might, but times 
is crool ’ard,” he whined. 

“ Keep it,” said Cuthbert, shortly. 

Instantly Mr. Barker’s playful mien dropped from him 
like a veil. 

“ Plant,” he said, putting his hands in his pocket, 
“bleedin’ plant.” 

“You can earn it if you like,” said Cuthbert, angrily. 
Mr. Barker began to sing the loves of his kind ; the mare 
looked at them dejectedly ; she expected a fight, and knew 
by experience the sequel, so far as she was concerned. 

“ Oh, very well,” said Cuthbert, turning on his heel. 

190 


Love with Honour 


“ ’Ere, I s’y, guvnor, wot’s your lay ? ” 

“Just a little information, that’s all.” 

“ Jography, ’rithmetic, ’istory, I wonder ? ” said Mr. 
Barker, pensively, looking up into the sky. 

“ No ; about our friend.” Mr. Barker brought down his 
eyes with a jerk, and spat. 

“ Your friend, me lord ?” 

“Very well, my friend; I want to know all about him.” 

“ Wot d’you tike me for ? ” croaked Mr. Barker, re- 
proachfully. “ Fm s’prised.” Cuthbert laughed cynically. 
Mr. Barker fired. 

“ Look ’ere,” he said menacingly, “ you’ve made a mis- 
take this journey ; I may be pore, but the man don’t live 
as can say as Jim Barker ever narked on a pal.” 

Cuthbert quickened at the word. “ I didn’t say I 
wanted you to ‘ nark.’ I only want to ask you a few 
questions. What’s this chap’s name ? ” 

Mr. Barker drew down his under lid with a dirty fore- 
finger. 

“ His real name, I mean ? ” Mr. Barker spread his 
hands. 

“ Arst me another,” he said. 

“ Is it Surtees ? ” 

“ I’ve only his word for it.” 

“ Where did you see him last ? ” 

Mr. Barker cocked his eye thoughtfully. 

“Well, lemme see — was it Bucknam Pallis or Mawl- 
boro ’Ouse ? — ’pon me word, wot wiv the cares of busi- 
ness an’ the poison they puts in a pore man’s beer — ” 
Cuthbert put his hand in his pocket. 

“ It will be worth your while to remember,” he said. 

191 


Love with Honour 


Mr. Barker presented the picture of conscious virtue. 

“ Now look ’ere,” he said, addressing an imaginary spec- 
tator. “ I put it to you as a man, temptin’ a bloke to give 
a pal away ; sickenin’, I call it. If I did see ’im ’avin’ a 
little argument with a cop about his traps, wot o’ that ? ” 

Arkell was surprised out of discretion; he congratulated 
himself on his liberality. 

In the hands of the police, was he ? ” he asked ex- 
citedly. 

‘‘ Now did I s’y so ? They didn’t find nothing, not 
that time.” 

“ What about his wife ? ” said Arkell, suddenly. 

“Wife now,” said Mr. Barker, scratching his head. 

“ Didn’t you ask him after his missus and kids ? ” 

“So I did, so I did.” 

“ Has he a wife ? ” 

“ He didn’t interjooce me ; he said he was tramping to 
Barstow in search of a job. Missus an’ kids gone by rail 
along of the sticks. That’s wot ’e said^ 

“ Then you think — ” 

“ I ain’t paid to think,” said Mr. Barker, pointedly. 

“ Where did he come from ? ” 

Mr. Barker laughed derisively. “ Egypt, mebbe, or Jer- 
icho. Oh, chuck it ! Come, Flossie,” he addressed his 
mare, “ the gentleman’s barmy.” 

“ Look here,” said Cuthbert, after a pause, with an air 
of frankness, “ do you want to earn a fiver ? ” 

“So long as it’s honest,” said Mr. Barker, with inimi- 
table unction. 

“ For certain reasons I want to find out the previous 
history of this man Surtees; if you care to undertake the 

192 


Love with Honour 

job, ril give you five pounds. I can give you the names 
and addresses of people he corresponds with, that’s all.” 
He was about to write down the addresses of Mr. Pern- 
bridge and Hermann Fischer, but thought better of it. 
“No,” he said, “just find out the people he last stayed 
with, and put me into communication with them. Under- 
stand, I don’t want to do him any harm ; I only want to 
know.” 

“ Just for fun, so to speak ? ” said Barker, demurely. 

“Yes, exactly; just for fun,” answered Cuthbert, laugh- 
ing uneasily. 

“ Say six weeks.” 

“Yes,” said Cuthbert, after a moment’s reflection, “I’ll 
pay you for what you tell me then.” 

Mr. Barker suggested and received ten shillings on 
account. When Arkell had gone, he placed the sovereign 
on the palm of his right hand, the half-sovereign on his 
left, and gazed at them. 

“Tork abart cilibrated authors,” he murmured, “’ere’s 
thirty bob in ’arf an hour for my own patter back agin.” 


o 


193 


Chapter XV 

M ARK’S fear that his employment by Hermann 
was an act of charity, and that he himself 
would be bored for want of occupation, was 
quickly dissipated. No sooner had he got 
fairly to work than the subject grew out of all knowledge. 
The frank, obvious beauty of the Severnshire landscape 
cried out for reproduction, — the clifF-like elms, impossibly 
still, looking as if cut out of green bronze, each a kingdom 
with a whole topography of capes and bays ; the clean grey 
walls, sharply fissured, with pale, untroubled shadows ; the 
brisk planes and curves of upland ; the busy sky, — wherever 
he turned was something of interest, and his only difficulty 
was one of selection. In three months Hermann wrote : — 
“ I find there is a great demand in the studios of land- 
scape painters for photographic studies of foreground de- 
tails, foliage, flowers, grasses, even broken ground. As the 
winter comes on, and the leaves fall, I shall require nega- 
tives of the branch and twig arrangement of every kind of 
tree in your neighbourhood. You can work these in, mere 
records, between your more considered studies of tone 
effect. I am glad that you have found the thing worth 
doing. Please understand that it is quality, not quantity, I 
want ; it would not trouble me if you sent me nothing for 
six weeks. I don’t pretend to pay you for your work ; the 
sum I give is merely a retaining fee until I can see how the 
thing is going to pay. Let me know when you wish to 
move on ; there is plenty of work to be done when you 
have exhausted your district.” 

194 


Love with Honour 

The concluding sentence of Hermann’s letter brought 
Mark face to face with himself; he realised all at once 
what held him to Charlcote. The folly of remaining in 
the neighbourhood of Laura Dampier was sufficiently 
obvious. Apart from the fact that he believed her to be 
informally engaged to Cuthbert Arkell, she belonged to an 
atmosphere he could not hope to share. Her intercourse 
with him, though too gracious for condescension, had been 
a deliberate kindness ; he pictured her bending to speak to 
him ; and now, he supposed on a hint from Major Vassall, 
she had resumed her place apart as if to imply, pointedly, 
that her recognition of him had been formal rather than 
personal. Laura was admirably drilled, Mark thought bit- 
terly, and she could not be blamed if he, unused to gentle 
society, had mistaken civility for something warmer. His 
whole nature revolted from a situation where he might be 
pitied ; and he already noticed in Major Vassall’s manner 
toward him an affronted surprise, a regret that he had per- 
mitted friendship between his ward and one so ignorant 
that he could presume. Not that, in looking back, Mark 
could remember any liberty of speech or manner; he 
was forced to believe that he had betrayed himself uncon- 
sciously. The major was always polite when they met, 
but used the opportunity for dry recitals of Dampier 
honours ; with a cold eye, as if to define Laura’s position 
and bid Mark remember his own. That Major Vassall 
was reassuring himself by a confession of faith would have 
seemed incredible. Mark had his dreams in which Laura’s 
reserve was attributed to another cause, but the awakening 
only brought him shame for his folly. How nearly he 
escaped public notice was made clear to him by the pitiless 

195 


Love with Honour 


mimicry of the children. He came upon them one day, 
elaborately engaged with sticks arranged to look like a 
camera and tripod. 

“ I be Miss Laura,” primmed Sally, with a toss of her 
head. 

“ And I be the major,” growled Annie. 

“ And Mary be you,” they volunteered, as Mary, covered 
with shame at being caught acting, hung her head. 

“ But why is Mary me, and why has she painted her 
face ? ” he asked incautiously. 

“ Because she’s the ockardest and says nothing ; and 
your face is always red when Miss Laura be there.” 

He somewhat tartly recommended the children not to 
lick the paint — dry vermilion “ lent,” they explained, by 
Uncle Joseph — from their faces. The incident finally 
convinced Mark of the wisdom of leaving Charlcote, and 
he wrote to Hermann for further orders. Hermann’s 
answer was so prompt as to persuade Mark that his loiter- 
ing had been an indulgence. 

“ I should like you to follow up the course of the Severn 
and do me a series of river pictures. I have talked the 
matter over with Watters and Pike, the publishers, and Wat- 
ters, who is a man of ideas, assures me that there is room 
for such a series. If successful, we will take the Thames 
and other rivers in turn. Then there are churches and 
big country houses to be considered ; don’t you think you 
could make some use of your father’s antiquarian work in 
this connection ? However, I feel inclined to begin with 
the Severn, as you are in that neighbourhood. Watters 
will guarantee me against loss, even if I make nothing out 
of it. I had to make sure of this because the expenses will 
196 


a 


Love with Honour 

be rather heavy to start with. You will have to get 
conveyance of some sort ; I suggest a van. Will you 
sketch me out a plan of what internal fittings you think 
proper, together with a list of the things you require to take 
with you ? When I get these details I shall write to 
Cridlands, the Chester people, who make a specialty of this 
sort of thing, for an estimate.” 

Mark spent much enthusiasm over ingenious contrivances 
for saving space in his van. He divided the vehicle into 
two compartments : a smaller in front, to serve as a dark 
room ; a larger behind to carry odds and ends, and for a 
sleeping-place in cold or wet weather should he find himself 
at a distance from an inn. He did not discuss this last 
matter with Hermann, but nursed a private and boyish deter- 
mination to live as far as possible in the open air. To his 
neighbours at Charlcote he said nothing at all until the van 
had actually arrived on the Camp. Here it became for the 
children a perfect treasure-house. During Mark’s expla- 
nation of the fittings they were respectful ; but immediately 
the spell was broken, and they understood that it was less a 
machine than a house on wheels, they swarmed in and over 
the structure like pirate bees. They easily changed the 
house idea into that of a ship ; and the broken ramparts of 
the Camp, the cottage, the firwood, took on the sounding 
names of capes and havens. Mary sat upon the box for 
hours at a time ; now she ploughed the waters of mystic 
seas, washing at once the confines of Babylon and of Malton- 
on-Sea, — her farthest actual marine excursion. So sitting, 
her eyes enlarged to the scope of continents and bright with 
torrid skies, she made real and trite her imaginations, cher- 
ishing the hope that Mr. Surtees would yet take her with 
197 


Love with Honour 

him. If he looked her way she shivered rapturously, and 
once, when Mrs. Winscombe allowed her to set the table for 
tea, the matter was settled. She would not, she decided, 
require any wages; and having heard in an object lesson 
that chocolate was peculiarly sustaining, she earned an un- 
deserved name for greediness by hoarding a whole two- 
penn’orth. When Ainger, at his own request, painted the 
name “ Mary ” upon the van, she made a distribution of 
her worldly possessions and said ‘‘ Good-bye ” all round at 
afternoon school. 

“ For a piece of cut-and-dried coach building,” said 
Ainger, walking round the van, it could not be bettered ; 
but for my part give me the bellying lines of the old wains. 
’Tis a forgotten art ; this in a manner is made, those were 
built. Every timber grew into its place and had a character 
of its own, laid lovingly and brooded over by the master 
builder’s fireside. He put his heart into each piece ; no 
wagon had its fellow. I make no doubt that these gentle- 
men turn out a dozen at a time, such as this, every one the 
dead spit of the others. You’ll travel warm and weather- 
tight, Mr. Surtees, but you’ll take no humanity with you.” 

Mrs. Winscombe gazed upon the van with terror, her 
imagination occupied with impossible accidents of flood and 
field, impossibly mingled. She held the children close 
against her side. 

‘‘What be driving you away, Mr. Surtees ? ” she asked. 
“We shall miss you terribly, the major and all.” 

Mark explained that his work necessitated a change of 
quarters. 

“ That’s a pity,” she said ; “ promise me that whenever 
I send for you, you will come ? ” 

198 


Love with Honour 


“ Why do you say that ? ” said Mark, with sudden 
anxiety. 

“ I cannot tell you ; there is trouble coming, but how or 
when it will fall I do not know.” 

‘‘ But what use can I be ? ” 

“ Do you think I am likely to be mistaken ? ” she asked 
bitterly, “ I that have watched over her all these years and 
know every look on her face ? ” She was turning away, 
but Mark called her back. 

‘‘ I ought to tell you,” he said, ‘‘that one evening in July 
I overheard you and your brother talking together. It was 
not my fault, and you may be sure that whatever you said 
will be safe with me.” 

She looked at him in silence for a few minutes. 

“ I believe that I am not sorry you heard,” she said, 
“ though it was terrible careless of me. I cannot ask you any 
questions, or tell you anything more; maybe you will know 
everything soon, maybe I was entirely wrong. I will only 
ask you one thing, that you never speak to my brother of 
what you have heard.” 

“ Neither to him nor to anyone else.” 

When Mark came to put his things together preparatory 
to starting on his journey, he found it was not so much 
things he was packing up as the ideas of them, and that each 
one extended to such ambiguous borders that he hurried 
over his work mentally with closed eyes, reading himself a 
lecture on fatty degeneration of the intellect. He had a 
profound faith in heroic measures, and assured himself that, 
once out of the atmosphere of Charlcote, he would again 
look at life with the eyes of a philosopher. He was to 
begin his voyage the next morning, and, though he wished 
199 


Love with Honour 


to avoid any leave-taking, there were places that called him, 
he believed, for themselves. When, in the evening, he 
made his way across the fields to the waterfall at the end 
of the Charlcote estate, he was not surprised to find Laura 
before him. He returned her greeting with elaborate 
cheerfulness. 

“ I hear you are going away,” she said. 

Oh, yes,” he answered, “ my time is up here ; indeed, I 
have stayed rather longer than was necessary ; it has been 
very pleasant. Don’t you envy me ? I neither know nor 
care where I shall sleep to-morrow night.” 

She smiled faintly at him in return. 

“ Yes, I envy you ; it is a great thing to be able to move 
on directly you are tired of a place.” 

‘‘ I did not say I was tired of the place ; it is a matter of 
business. You forget that I am not my own master.” 

‘‘ No, but you could be if you chose.” 

‘‘That depends on what you mean by master.” She 
looked at him quickly. “ For example,” he added, with a 
short laugh, “ I am still bothered with ‘ things.’ I walked 
over here to consider in quiet what I can do without; you 
can sort things out better when you get away from them ; 
they fall into a right proportion. I always come here when 
I want to be quiet ; I shall remember this place ; I discovered 
it during the first three days I was here — the noise of 
water called me across the fields.” 

“ There is no noise of water now.” 

“It’s the sort of sound you miss.” 

She shivered slightly. “ Yes ; it fills up.” 

“ But your life is not empty ? ” 

“ No, but I am not like you ; I care for associations.” 

200 


Love with Honour 

“ That's rather feeble, isn’t it ? ” he said, determined to 
be practical. 

‘‘ I suppose it is, but I am not in the habit of considering 
the value of my feelings.” 

“ Perhaps not, but it is better to be honest.” 

She looked at him with what was nearly contempt. 

“ I mean,” he explained, ‘‘ that it is better to have a per- 
fectly clear understanding with oneself, whether one values 
things for their own sake or for their associations.” 

“ I don’t think it matters ; it’s enough for me that I like 
or dislike a thing. Besides, it is so difficult to decide.” 

“ That’s merely the result of training. Perhaps I’ve had 
unusual advantages in my trade ; the camera doesn’t record 
associations ; splendid training in sanity.” 

“Yes, but I doubt if sanity is the finest thing in the world.” 

“ Do you ? ” 

“ People accuse me of cultivating illusions.” 

“ About persons or things ? ” 

She evaded him. “There is Charlcote,” she said, look- 
ing back to where the roof showed over the trees in the 
orchard. “ I have just been talking about the house with my 
mother. To take a perfectly sane view, she has every rea- 
son for wishing to leave it. It is damp, gloomy, and five 
miles from everywhere. Yet I could not leave Charlcote; 
I shall live and die there.” 

“ Yes,” he said, with a singular difficulty in finding the 
words, “ unless you marry.” 

“ I shall never marry.” 

He laughed awkwardly. 

“ You’ll think me horribly rude, but I thought it was an 
understood thing.” 


201 


Love with Honour 


That is so like a man,” she cried ; “ the natural end 
of woman.” 

He retorted irritably, “You know I don’t mean that; I 
was under the impression that you were engaged to marry 
Cuthbert Arkell.” 

“What a funny thing to say,” yet her tone did not 
betray that she saw the humour of the remark. 

“ It seems to me a perfectly natural supposition,” he 
retorted. 

“You have no right to say that,” she murmured, colour- 
ing violently. “I didn’t think you were so abominably 
narrow.” 

“ I beg your pardon ; I had no intention of taking a 
liberty. Other people are under the same impression ; I 
believe Major Vassall thinks you are engaged to Cuthbert.” 

She turned on him indignantly. 

“ And do you think I should not have told him if it were 
true ? ” 

“ I supposed you had told him.” 

“ Has he ever said so ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; perhaps I was wrong in saying what I 
did. I should have said that he wished it to be.” Mark 
was beginning to get angry at her want of candour. Her 
eyes opened with surprise. 

“ Do you really think that ? ” she said, in a tone of dis- 
appointment. “ I can’t believe it.” 

“ Your mother wishes you to marry Cuthbert Arkell,” 
he pressed, unworthily. 

“ Yes,” she admitted, “ my mother is anxious to see a 
comfortable future for me. But I couldn’t marry Cuth- 
bert Arkell even if I were willing.” 


202 


Love with Honour 


‘‘ He — ” Mark shied off the word — “ cares for you.” 

‘‘For my looks, for my hands, for my playing, for any- 
thing but me. Do you think I could be satisfied with 
that ? ” she cried passionately. “ Do you think I could 
give myself to a man, thrown in, as it were, with what he 
was pleased to consider my attractions ? ” 

“ Most marriages are based on something like that,” he 
said. “In any case it is better than what so often happens. 
These things are at least personal, and not an accident like 
money or titles. What right have you to question the 
motives of a man who wishes to marry you ? If you con- 
ceal your real self, that is your fault. After all, what are 
you apart from your qualities ? ” 

She was shaken with something other than anger. 

“ Nothing, perhaps, to you,” she faltered, stupefied by 
the unexpected vehemence of his attack. 

“There you are right,” he said cynically. “How 
should I know ? I have not, as you imply, had the 
opportunity of meeting you upon equal terms. You 
have always been — what is the word? — ‘nice’ to me; 
careful to remind me that you are Miss Dampier and 
I am a travelling photographer. Oh, I thank Miss 
Dampier for her kindness ; what are you to me ? I leave 
that question to you ; I myself shall never be able to 
answer it.” 

“ You are more insolent than I could have believed,” 
she said, in a low voice. 

“ I am sorry ; I am a beast, I know. I am really 
ashamed of myself; it is contemptible to feel like that. 
After all, I am myself.” 

“ You are yourself,” she echoed, with a little catch in 
203 


Love with Honour 


her voice. They stood looking at each other for some 
minutes. He turned to go. 

“We won’t quarrel at the last moment,” he said briskly. 

“ You are coming back ? ” she faltered. 

“ I am not sure.” 

“ Good-bye,” she murmured, holding out her hand. 

He drew her to him, and, as one calming a child, kissed 
her slowly and quietly on the mouth. For the moment 
she suffered him with shut eyes, but immediately pushing 
him away, began gently to cry. 

“ Why did you do that ? ” she whispered ; “ I wish you 
hadn’t ; it was cruel of you — please go away.” 

He laughed low, holding her hands, while she turned her 
head away, sobbing bitterly. 

“Yes, I will go away,” he murmured. “I will go any- 
where you send me. Nothing matters any more ; I know 
everything now — even what you are to me. Let me see 
your face for a moment — dear,” he pleaded. 

But she shook her averted head. 

“ No,” she whispered. “ Go now.” 


204 


Chapter XVI 


I N the hungrier section of Bohemia a hint of “ busi- 
ness ” acts like magic ; that is to say, in those circles 
where theatrical agent is more frankly written 
bawd, where journalist is a euphemism for black- 
mailer, and where the artist happens to work in metal. It 
is like the curious model of various industries that is, or 
was, to be seen at the Crystal Palace, where you put in a 
penny and sleeping energies awoke to life all around you. 
Only with these humans, who have been for a long while 
underneath, snatching their existence, as it were, from 
between the interstices of lawful occupation, you get a 
more feverish activity. The situation will be clear to any- 
one whose luggage has suffered a quarrel between cab- 
runners, or who has been dogged by shoeblacks hungrily 
watching a shortening cigar. Oddly, too, it is not the nec- 
essaries, but the luxuries, of life that most excite these people ; 
they are so low, yet children of joy, and the savagely apolo- 
getic laugh should they happen to hurt each other in a 
struggle speaks volumes. There is with all this a crude idea 
of fellowship ; a whisper of something to be had passes like 
a ferment through the whole policy, and, though each fights 
for his own hand, he is open with his intentions. 

Under the stimulus of Cuthbert ArkelPs purse Mr. 
Barker succeeded in tracing Mark Surtees to the Cafe de 
POrient and Mr. Sidney Topping; though it was late March 
before he came in actual touch with the latter. 

“ Chap named Surtees ; tall, dark, solemn ; says as he’s 
a photographer ; never bin lagged.” 

205 


Love with Honour 

‘‘Can’t lay my finger on him now,” said Topping, 
grandly, “ but I know him well ; done anything ? ” 

“ Not as I know ; gentleman employing me wants infor- 
mation, thinks your friend can give me some.” 

“ What gentleman ? ” 

“ Name of Arkell.” 

“ Put me into communication.” 

Barker shut one eye. 

“This is my little lot,” he said, draining his beer to 
clinch the matter. 

Mr. Barker and Topping, both versed in the art of eva- 
sion, walked round each other for some days. Each scented 
plunder, though Topping sought it vicariously. He trans- 
lated every inquiry into a search for Danvers’s vocal ability. 
Betraying his weakness by leading questions, Mr. Barker 
put that construction upon it ; if one came to consider, Mr. 
Cuthbert Arkell was a likely person to be a patron of the 
arts. Neither Barker nor Topping knew the extent of 
their advantages, or how they were to be obtained. They 
reasoned — when a man wants something badly he will 
usually pay for it. Arkell wanted information ; Barker 
would see that he got it, but he would endeavour to arrange 
that all dealings were through him. Topping wanted direct 
communication between Danvers and Arkell. This he 
finally won by a clever lie. 

“ The thing’s off,” he announced carelessly, “ you won’t 
get your money. I don’t want to touch the thing, but your 
client can only get what he wants from my friend, who 
won’t work through an agent. Understand?” 

Mr. Barker said he would think it over. As a result of 
his meditations Topping was supplied with Cuthbert Arkell’s 
206 


Love with Honour 

address. In answer to a subtly worded letter came the sug- 
gestion that Cuthbert would call in person, if desired. Top- 
ping said nothing to the singer until affairs had reached this 
definite stage. The meeting arranged, he entered their 
room, — they now lived over the cafe for cheerfulness, — 
and, shutting the door with a fine gesture, observed : — 

“ Now we shan’t be long.” 

Danvers, who sat on two chairs reading the Era^ looked 
up irritably. 

“Oh, damn you. Topping,” he grumbled, “don’t I get 
enough of that every night ? ” 

Topping smiled mysteriously. 

“ You may curse me an’ you will ; you may wipe your 
boots on me.” He went on to indicate that in the face of 
his business personal dignity might be neglected to any 
extent. 

“ Cut the cackle,” said Danvers, languidly, “ what’s 
up?” 

“ Didn’t I tell you you’d get your own back some day ? ” 
continued the youth. 

“ I believe you mentioned something of the sort,” said 
Danvers, laying down his paper, with a yawn. “ Granting 
the truth of your eloquence, what is the reason for this par- 
ticular outburst ? ” 

“You’ve been heard of, that’s all,” said Topping, over 
his shoulder, with immense effect. Danvers laughed dis- 
agreeably. 

“ Uncertain luck,” he said ; “ before I celebrate I should 
like a few details. It is not always a matter for congratu- 
lation — to be heard of.” 

“Well, you’ll know in an hour.” 

207 


Love with Honour 


“I say, Topping, be careful,” said the singer, with more 
energy. 

“ Oh, he’s all right, he’s a gentleman, writes on crested 
paper.” 

“ What’s the name of your nobleman ? ” 

“ Arkell ; Cuthbert Arkell.” 

‘‘ Severnshire name,” said Danvers, reflectively. 

“That’s where he comes from,” cried Topping, de- 
lighted ; “ he’ll be here by eleven-thirty sharp to see you.” 

“Curse it all. Topping,” said the singer, getting on his 
feet, “ I’m not shaved yet ; why didn’t you tell me before ? 
I can’t see him like this.” He walked shivering about the 
room, and collected his shaving tackle. 

“ Don’t worry,” said Topping, with a grin; “it’s part of 
the plan that he should see you in your usual get-up.” He 
did not explain that it was sheer self-denial that led him to 
arrange the interview. 

Arkell and Danvers met in the dark ; both were wary, 
but the singer was the more practised. He gave Arkell 
credit for wanting to know more than he pretended, while 
Arkell supposed him to be acting in collusion with Mark. 
To be fair to him, he did not believe, or desire, Mark to be 
guilty of any crime ; he predicated a disgraceful marriage, a 
profession on the edge of the law, anything that would 
place him outside the pale. 

Danvers had the advantage in conversation of knowing 
something of Cuthbert’s family history. He suspected 
that he was an agent, for whom and for what purpose was 
not apparent. After these years none of the acquaintances 
of his army days could do him any harm ; in a sense, he 
had the laugh of them ; they were more likely to shun than 
208 


Love with Honour 


seek him. This made Cuthbert’s visit the more unaccount- 
able. Ten minutes convinced Topping that the occasion 
did not concern Danvers as a musical phenomenon. While 
Cuthbert made artless excursions, after the manner of the 
detectives of his reading, Danvers systematically pumped 
him. He did the honours with a good deal of manner, 
flattering Arkell with the assumption that he was a man of 
the world. 

“ Not exactly the place I should have chosen for the 
pleasure of receiving you, Arkell, but I needn’t insult your 
intelligence with an explanation. This sort of thing is so 
familiar th,at one really ought to apologise for being so trite 
an example. It is hardly neecssary to tell you that I drink. 
I don’t have outbursts, with picturesque intervals of re- 
morse ; I drink steadily, consistently. I am never drunk, 
and seldom quite sober ; cause ? A woman, as usual. But 
I won’t bore you with that ; after all, what does it matter ? 
The wheel goes round; one takes the bitter after the 
sweet. I knew Sir Francis once; never mind my name, 
he wouldn’t know the rights of the story.” 

Topping sat open-mouthed, outside the conversation. 
He had never witnessed an exhibition of Danvers’s best 
manner; as a rule, their acquaintances were not of a 
standing to appreciate it. 

“You inherit, I believe?” said Danvers. He leaned 
back in his chair, and allowed his really fine eyes to moisten. 
“You’ll forgive an old man’s sentiment. One does not 
whine; still, damn it all, Arkell, it hurts, you know, it 
hurts.” 

It had been assumed already that Danvers could give no 
information about Mark Surtees. 

209 


p 


Love with Honour 


“ Couldn’t exactly call him a friend, don’t you know ; in 
my circumstances one meets the oddest people. Queer 
fish, I should say.” 

Cuthbert intimated that the establishment of that hypoth- 
esis was of some importance to him. Danvers played him 
a little on that line. He might find out; Topping would 
make inquiries. He begged to introduce Topping ; hum- 
ble but loyal friend. 

‘‘Topping is of the opinion that one should cultivate 
one’s talents.” 

Topping somewhat defiantly made use of his opportunity ; 
he assured Cuthbert, that but for what he vaguely called 
“ influence,” Danvers would be singing at Covent Garden. 

“ This sort of thing does attract the herd, you know ; it 
is just the English form of sentimentality. You may be 
a proletarian and do a thing divinely, and they take little 
notice of you ; if you are an earl, and sing or play badly, 
they quarrel over doing you kindnesses. Of course, it 
keeps one alive.” 

“ I understand,” said Cuthbert, “ that you sing anything 
but badly.” 

“ You mean I might make a better thing of it ? Yes ; 
but you see I’m not an earl, only a poor gentleman broke 
in the wars ; this has no spectacular value.” 

There was a reason for Topping’s presence other than he 
himself intended. When people talk there are sometimes 
things said worth remembering; a witness is always an 
advantage. Cuthbert was encouraged to talk about Severn- 
shire people. 

“ I used to know a Severnshire man when I was in the 
service ; what was his name — Dampier, Lionel Dampier.” 


210 


Love with Honour 

“ How curious,” said Cuthbert j “ his widow lives in our 
village, at Charlcote House. Dampier’s been dead a good 
many years.” 

“ Didn’t know Dampier had ever married,” said 
Danvers, carelessly, “but of course, when a man drops 
out — ” 

“ Perhaps,” said Cuthbert, himself a little ashamed of 
discussing his friends in these surroundings, “ you don’t 
care to talk about people who remind you ? ” 

Danvers smiled sadly. 

“ With you, my dear fellow, I can talk ; you under- 
stand ? By the way, Dampier had a friend — in fact they 
were a sort of David and Jonathan ; the man exchanged. 
His name was — let me see — ah, Vassall.” 

“ Oh, yes ; Major Vassall also lives down there j he has 
a place called Moorlands, close by Charlcote.” 

'‘'‘Major Vassall? You surprise me; he was always 
looked upon as the ambitious soldier, bound to get on. 
Something must have happened; I wonder if it was a 
woman — though Vassall was always spoken of as a 
misogynist. ... He lives near Charlcote, you say ? 
Was there anything, do you think — Dampier’s widow, I 
mean ? ” 

Cuthbert laughed in spite of the bad taste of the dis- 
cussion. “ Poor old Vassall ! ” he said. “ No ; that is 
quite unthinkable. From what one gathers he left the ser- 
vice immediately after Dampier’s death.” 

“ Money ? ” 

“ Very little, I should say.” 

The singer got up and looked out of the window. “ By 
the way,” he said, with engaging shyness, “you won’t 

2II 


Love with Honour 


speak of me to Vassall or any of that lot. They are 
not like you ; there is nobody so narrow and conventional 
as the man with service training. They wouldn’t under- 
stand, you know; of course, one ought not to mind. 
Still — ” 

Cuthbert assured himself that, though his visit was a 
failure so far as his business was concerned, he was repaid 
by the discovery of this interesting blackguard. The man 
was worth observing for his own sake. Cuthbert adroitly 
turned the conversation in the direction of music halls, 
and here Topping joined in fervently. 

‘‘ I say,” he chirped, “ why not come round to-night and 
hear him sing ? I promise you a treat.” 

Danvers shrugged his shoulders. “ Not the sort of thing 
for you, Arkell. Samson in the Philistines’ mill, you 
know. However, just as you please. Ever been behind ? 
You might get some fun out of some of the people ; awful 
sweeps.” 

Cuthbert suggested dinner at his expense ; after a grace- 
ful altercation the point was conceded. They decided to 
dine at the cafe ; the rent of the room was in arrears, so 
that it was important to keep the management in a good 
temper; and Cuthbert’s hospitality and pleasant manners 
made a distinct impression. Cuthbert found that the Vi- 
vacity fell short of its name, but when they had returned to 
the cafe, Danvers, now a little excited by liquor, sang some 
of his own songs. 

“ Can’t sing ’em at the usual places ; over their heads, don’t 
you know. A sympathetic audience helps one.” He bowed. 
“ It’s everything to feel one’s hearers in the right mood. 
A few people like you, and the thing might be a pleasure.” 


212 


Love with Honour 


Cuthbert left for his hotel in a good humour. He had 
been asked to arrange a charity concert at Cleeve in May, 
and the somewhat bizarre style of Danvers’s singing was 
worth consideration. If the man were produced with a 
little touch of mystery, the suggestion of a “ past,” he 
would be a striking addition to the programme. On 
the whole, Cuthbert wished that the acquaintance had been 
formed without the aid of Mr. Barker. That person 
degraded the business, and Cuthbert felt that perhaps five 
pounds was not the measure of one’s expenses, if one con- 
sidered personal dignity. 

Danvers was in high spirits. He sent for another bottle 
of Beaune, over which he and Topping sat in mazy 
good-fellowship. 

“ Topping,” said the singer, “you have done more for 
me than you know.” He sighed. “ If one didn’t happen 
to be a gentleman, one might, as you say, get one’s own 
back. Thank God, you are not a gentleman. Topping.” 

Topping, too far gone to feel hurt, lifted his glass and 
looked profound. 

“ Whatever it is,” he said, “ I’m in with you.” 

Danvers looked at him reflectively. There were occa- 
sions, he realised, when Topping might be inconvenient. 
Still, he could not be dispensed with ; one needed the faithful 
hound. 

“ You’re a good fellow. Topping ; I’m sorry I can’t take 
you into my confidence. One has to consider other 
people.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Topping, magnanimously. 
“ Just let me know when I’m to chip in ; I’m good for 
anything.” 


213 


Love with Honour 


“ There’s money in it — if one could do it. That young 
man is clever ; I am cleverer. He wanted to know some- 
thing ; he was willing to pay, he has learned nothing. I 
wanted information; I do not pay, I get it. Further, he 
indirectly pays. Pays me for finding out what I wanted to 
know. That is, if I can forget I am a gentleman. He is a 
remarkably clever young man.” 

‘‘Take my tip and go in blindfold.” 

“ What I can’t understand is, where does our young friend 
Surtees come in.” 

Topping made a gesture of contempt. 

“ Don’t think much of him ; he’s a smug.” 

“ Undoubtedly, my dear chap ; but he is of some impor- 
tance to Arkell, hence his visit. Why ? Probably a 
woman. However, that little affair don’t concern us.” 

Topping had a large general sense of state secrets. He 
loved being mystified. When Danvers got his own back, 
there would be pickings for Sidney Topping. 

Danvers soon reached a more sentimental stage. 

“There are ties. Topping, that cannot be ignored. One 
has claims. People have forgotten me, but I never forget. 
I bear no ill will, but it is only right to assert oneself.” 

“That’s what I say,” said Topping, thickly. “I’m 
always telling you to shove. What I say is this : if people 
can’t see with their own eyes, they must be made to, 
that’s all.” 

The singer indulged in a great deal of general conversa- 
tion. He quoted hypothetical cases in which action, mer- 
cenary at first sight, might be justified on abstract grounds. 

“ I think I may say that I am in a position to command 
the gratitude of certain people by holding my tongue. Their 
214 


Love with Honour 


gratitude might be expressed in a considerable sum, if they 
had it, and I were not a gentleman. The question is, ought 
I not to waive that, to enable them to ease their minds — 
and their pockets ? ” 

“You know my opinion,” said Topping, throwing him- 
self back in his chair and whistling through his teeth. 

“ Of course there are difficulties,” pursued Danvers, pour- 
ing out another drink. “ There’s Vassall, for example ; never 
did like Vassall, don’t fancy he liked me. However, I think 
he would see the wisdom of a quiet policy. I should say, 
from what I remember, that he would give a great deal to 
stop people’s mouths. Pity he’s got no money.” 

With the end of the bottle, he fell to weeping, and cursed 
his wanton youth. He walked up and down the room, ex- 
horting Topping to stick to business, and forswear random 
pleasures. Presently he dragged a battered portmanteau 
from under the bed, and, out of a frowsy mass of clothing, 
produced a small packet of papers tied with ribbon, and 
an oblong mahogany case. He opened the latter, exposing 
a pair of rusty pistols. Topping sprang up in terror. 

“ Here, I say,” he cried, “ drop that. For God’s sake, 
don’t be a mug.” 

Danvers laughed bitterly. “ Don’t be afraid,” he said, 
“ I’m past that. I ought to have done it years ago ; I 
shan’t do it now.” He took out the pistols and fingered 
them curiously. 

“ I remember the day they were last used,” he said. 
“ Did I ever tell you that I had killed my man ? It was a 
fair fight. Topping ; he called me out. God!” he cried 
passionately, flinging down the weapons, “ look at me now ! ” 
He raved incoherently. Topping was frightened. 

215 


Love with Honour 

“ Put ’em away,” he coaxed. “ Look here, Fll send out 
for another drink — there’s just time before they close ; what 
shall it be, whiskey ? ” 

Danvers shook his head. 

“ No, no ! ” he said, “ enough of that. I’m going to 
turn over a new leaf. Topping; the sight of these things 
has touched me deeply.” 

“Better have a drink!” persisted Topping. He knew 
that a little more and the singer would sleep. 

“Well, well, if you insist; but let it be a drink for 
gentlemen ; the wine has brought back old times.” 

He was for a while maudlin and comforted. He raised 
the papers to his lips. 

“ Forsaken, forsaken,” he murmured, “ but God knows 
it was no fault of mine. There’s a woman’s heart in 
those letters. Topping; there’s tragedy. I’ve never for- 
gotten ; time after time I’ve tried to destroy them, but I 
couldn’t.” He balanced them on his hand with a sudden 
change of tone. 

“ If I were not a poor fool with a cursed sense of honour, 
I could make hundreds out of these. Most men in my 
wretched condition would have sold them. But no; you 
see what it is. Topping, to have the instincts of a gentle- 
man? ... I have lived for these; but for these poor 
records of a woman’s love I should have shot myself years 
ago. Bad as I am, they have kept me from the worst. 
I have never stolen ; did you evor know me to steal. 
Topping?” he cried fiercely. 

“ Of course not ; let me hear anyone say so, that’s all. 
Go to bed, old man, you’ll be ill.” 

“I can’t sleep for thinking over old times. Topping, I 
216 


Love with Honour 


give you a trust ; you must guard these letters as I have 
guarded them. When I am dead give them back to her 
whose name is written on the outside of the packet, and tell 
her I remembered. Never let them out of your hands ; 
you must not read them, they are too sacred even for your 
eyes — the eyes of my friend — Topping.” 

When he was at last persuaded to go to bed, he placed 
the letters under his pillow. Topping’s imagination was 
fired. They were in a lean year ; he was in bad favour at 
Holloway’s, he knew that only an excuse was needed for 
sacking him, and to-day’s absence from his work would 
not improve his position. He allowed a wide margin for 
Danvers’s habit of exaggeration ; but here, undoubtedly, was 
money. It took him several days to consider how the 
affair might be made practicable. One evening, when 
Danvers was out, he searched for the letters and examined 
them. They were enclosed in an outside wrapper with a 
name written thereon. Topping was a good penman. He 
made up a dummy parcel, roughly similar, and placed it in 
the portmanteau. He knew Danvers well enough to feel 
sure that, in spite of his emotion, it would probably be 
months before he remembered the letters again. In the 
interval many things might happen. 


217 


Chapter XVII 

‘‘ F only we could sell Charlcote,” said Mrs. Dam- 
■ pier, for the fiftieth time. 

I Laura leaned back from the piano, her left hand 
still resting on the keys, and gave her mother a 
trained, immediate attention. 

“ I don't see any reason why we should not go away for 
a few weeks to Cleeve, or even to London, if you would 
prefer it," she said, with a cheerfulness that was obviously 
adopted. ‘‘ I believe we could let Charlcote for the whole 
summer if we advertised.” 

“ Advertised ? ” echoed Mrs. Dampier, with a shiver. 
“ I could not think of making our business public in that 
way.” Of late Mrs. Dampier read her newspaper with 
the preternatural intuitions of the fearful. She clutched it 
the moment it came into the house, lest Laura should open 
it before her, and read — what she did not know. Every 
day the journal was devoured with tremors, and laid down 

with a sigh of relief, always with an after regret for the 

continued suspense. The unhappy woman had reached a 
stage when an unexpected caller was a severe mental shock ; 
the postman’s knock set her shivering. What is long ex- 
pected usually happens ; and last week, in answer to Mrs. 
Dampier’s quavering challenge, she received a letter out of 
the unknown, as it were, focussing the hostility of the 
universe in a strange handwriting. The definite blow 
calmed her nerves ; she began to use a defiant manner 
toward her daughter and Major Vassall. She took for 

granted the curiosity they did not feel, and asserted a dis- 

218 


Love with Honour 


regard for the opinions they did not offer. Fear has many 
disguises. 

Laura did not inquire into her mother’s revulsion from 
the idea of advertisement. 

Well, then,” she said, let us go away for a little 
change.” 

‘‘ A change only makes things worse,” answered her 
mother, gloomily. There is always the coming back, 
and the opening of rooms that have been long shut. You 
never know what to expect when you come back.” 

“We needn’t shut up the house; we could let Mrs. 
Masters come here while we are away ; I would trust 
her with everything,” said Laura. She was perplexed by 
the nervous condition into which her mother had fallen, 
and caught at any suggestion she thought would please her. 

“ I suppose she is as trustworthy as anybody else,” said 
Mrs. Dampier, bitterly. 

“You make me very uncomfortable when you talk like 
that, mother dear,” said Laura, turning round. “ I know 
you don’t mean it, but you give me the idea that I have 
done something to displease you.” 

Mrs. Dampier smiled craftily. 

“ Do you care, Laura, whether you please or displease 
me ? ” 

“ I know what you mean, mother,” said Laura, flushing. 
“ If you really wish me to accept Mrs. Arkell’s invitation, 
of course I will do so.” 

“ Yes, you’ll go and offend people by letting them see 
you are there under protest.” 

“ No, indeed ; I shall probably enjoy myself very much, 
only I don’t quite like going without you.” 

219 


Love with Honour 


“ I don’t see why you need trouble about me, unless you 
are afraid to leave me alone.” 

“ Why should I be afraid, mother ? ” 

Mrs. Dampier turned away, and, walking to the window, 
looked anxiously down the garden path. 

Laura repeated her question, adding, “ It is very unkind 
of you to say a thing like that without explaining what you 
mean.” 

“ But I suppose you’ll set Esther, or some of your 
friends, to watch me,” continued her mother, without 
answering her question. 

“Forgive me, mother; but that’s perfectly ridiculous.” 

“ Oh, don’t think I’m blind ; you’re always watch- 
ing me. Other people notice it, too, and wonder why 
it is.” 

“Surely we needn’t bother about what other people 
wonder; the people we care about, our friends, are not 
likely to imagine anything disagreeable.” 

“ I have no friends ; and you know that yours are 
always talking about me.” 

“ Oh, all country people talk. Of course they know 
pretty well how we live, and what money we spend ; but 
there’s nothing disgraceful in scraping. I don’t think you 
really mind ; they are always perfectly respectful.” 

“Yes, openly; but there’s a sort of undercurrent. You 
pass two people on the road, and, if you happen to look 
round, their heads are together whispering.” 

“ Indeed, I shall think you really are ill,” said Laura, 
in a tone of great distress. “ That is sheer fancy ; you 
used not to be morbid.” 

“ I am not morbid now,” said Mrs. Dampier, laughing 


220 


Love with Honour 


uneasily; “I am only stating a fact you can’t deny. 
They do talk about me, and there’s an end of it.” 

‘‘ But, mother, what can they possibly talk about ? One 
would think you had done something wrong.” 

“ I ? how should I ? ” said Mrs. Dampier, whitening ; 
then, with a violent return of colour, “what an extraor- 
dinary thing to say ; I think you are very wanting in 
good taste to make such a remark, even in jest.” 

“ Mother dear, you know I wasn’t jesting ; I only 
meant that, if people do talk at all, it is about something 
quite trivial — how you are looking or the dress you have on 
or something like that.” 

“ Yes ; and do you suppose that, if I am looking ill, as you 
say I am, they don’t imagine all sorts of reasons for it ? 
The fact remains that there are people about who are badly 
disposed toward me, and some of them are your particular 
friends.” 

“ Do you think I could call anyone my friend who spoke 
or even thought badly of you ? ” 

“ I don’t mean to say that you would willingly ; but you 
are so blinded by your hobbies that you don’t notice how 
people treat me.” 

“ I wish you would be more explicit, mother,” said Laura, 
nervously, for she knew the person aimed at. “Then I 
should know how to prevent your being annoyed in the 
future.” 

“ I may not be a Dampier,” said her mother, “ but I’m 
not going to stoop to bandying words with the village riff- 
rafF. I suppose you would like to be able to go to this one 
and the other, and say, ‘ You must not talk about my mother, ’ 
or ‘ My mother has forbidden me to speak to you, ’ so that 

221 


Love with Honour 


you may get sympathy. No ; if it were as definite as that, 
I could act for myself and put a stop to it. . . . To suffer 
that sort of thing from one’s equals is bad enough, but from 
one’s inferiors it is unbearable. As I say, you — I don’t say 
encourage it — but you give it countenance by spoiling the 
people who insult me. What makes it worse,” cried Mrs. 
Dampier, passionately, “ is the fact that the woman her- 
self is of doubtful antecedents. Nobody knows anything 
about her, and for my part, I don’t believe she ever was 
married.” 

Laura flushed crimson; beyond vague expressions of 
dislike, her mother had never attacked Mrs. Winscombe in 
such a way that she was forced to answer her. 

“ Mother, mother,” she said, “ I can’t pretend not to 
know whom you mean. What a cruel thing to say ; why 
are you so bitter ? What has Elizabeth done that you 
should treat her so ? ” 

“ I don’t care what she has or has not done,” cried Mrs. 
Dampier, trembling with anger, ‘‘ she is a bad woman and 
my enemy. Why does she watch me; why does she 
follow me about ? Even in church her eyes are on me all 
the time. I have never wronged her in any way ; she can 
have nothing against me. Indeed, I scarcely ever speak to 
her, yet from the way she treats me I might have committed 
some crime.” 

“ If you wish, I will not go to see her any more,” mur- 
mured Laura. 

“ And have all the neighbourhood commenting on the 
sudden way you have dropped her acquaintance ; unless you 
are going to tell your friends that I have forbidden you to 
speak to her.” 


222 


Love with Honour 

“ That is sheer nonsense, mother.” 

Nonsense ? Is it nonsense that, not content with fol- 
lowing me about herself, she has men down from London to 
spy upon me ? Who was this Mr. Surtees ? Do you think 
I am such a fool as to believe a man would come all this way, 
to a place like this, to take photographs ? The man could 
not give any account of himself ; he lied. He told me that 
he was only staying here for a day or two, that he was 
going on to Severncester : yet he remained here for months, 
sneaking about the lanes and fields, even in our own 
grounds.” 

“ But you gave Mr. Surtees permission to take photo- 
graphs of the waterfall, mother. You said you had talked 
with him, and that he seemed,” Laura hesitated over the 
words, “a very gentlemanly person.” 

“ A man of that stamp is crafty enough to seem any- 
thing.” An earnest, though mistaken, wish to convince 
her mother that her suspicions were fantastic gave Laura 
courage to defend Mark. 

‘‘ But, mother, ” she said faintly, and with deepening 
colour, ‘‘ I know that he really is a professional photog- 
rapher, and also that the reason he stayed here was quite 
an accident. He was employed to take photographs by a 
friend who has a shop in London. I know that this is 
true, because I saw the name on the mounts of some 
pictures in Joseph Ainger’s workshop.” 

“ Then why did he leave here so suddenly ? ” asked Mrs. 
Dampier, but more calmly. 

“ I’m sure I don't know,” said Laura ; “I — I think he 
was tired of the place.” 

Mrs. Dampier was silent for a little while. She already 
223 


Love with Honour 


regretted her loss of self-control and was apprehensive of 
the effect upon Laura. 

She was also anxious to be convinced, as in her saner 
moments she believed, that Mark’s presence had been 
accidental. His association with Mrs. Winscombe had 
aroused the spectre never far distant. She endeavoured to 
speak in a tone of light curiosity. 

‘‘You saw a great deal of Mr. Surtees, did you not? ” 

“ I used to see him sometimes when I happened to be 
in Mrs. Winscombe’s cottage — or in Ainger’s workshop,” 
sftid Laura, wretchedly ashamed of the whole discussion. 

“ Everybody seemed interested in him,” said Mrs. Dam- 
pier, reflectively. “ I wish we could find out something of 
his history. Did he ever talk about himself? ” 

“ Not to me ; he used to talk about his work and the 
people he had met ; he was very fond of music,” answered 
Laura, painfully anxious to say something. 

“ Why didn’t you ask him to come and hear you play ? ” 

“ Oh, I couldn’t do that, mother.” 

“ Why not ? Surely you need not be so conventional in 
an out-of-the-way place like this. You seemed to be on 
pretty intimate terms with him, as it was.” 

“ Cuthbert Arkell asked me if he might bring him here.” 

“ Did he ? ” said Mrs. Dampier, with sudden apprehen- 
sion ; “ how very curious. Of course Cuthbert may bring 
his friends here if they know how to behave themselves. 
But I wanted Mr. Surtees to come here alone ; I wanted to 
talk to him.” 

Even now Laura shrank from the idea in terror. No 
one read her so mercilessly as her mother. Yet she need 
not have been afraid ; Mrs. Dampier’s preoccupation with 
224 


Love with Honour 

Mark Surtees would not allow her to notice her daughter’s 
behaviour in his presence. Laura got up from the piano and 
put her music together. 

“Would you like me to speak to Uncle Alfred about 
letting the house ? ” she asked, in a desperate effort to change 
the conversation. 

“ I think you might leave that to me, Laura. Alfred 
ignores me quite enough as it is. I don’t suppose he is 
conscious of it ; he never considered me your father’s 
equal.” 

“That is very unjust, mother.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mean to say that he is ever rude to me, 
but there is the feeling that he is considerate only out of 
self-respect. He is always glad of an excuse to get me 
out of the way. I can’t think what you two can find to talk 
about. Between your friends and your music you contrive 
to forget my existence altogether. . . . That is another 
thing ; I don’t pretend to speak with authority, but I should 
think you practise a great deal more than is necessary. 
One would think that you had to earn your living.” 

“ If you dislike my playing so much, I will certainly 
give it up,” said Laura, patiently. 

“ And have people say you gave it up to please me ? 
— pose as a martyr, in fact ? No ; it is not your playing 
I dislike, but your wanting to play. Lately you seem 
to think of nothing else; you neglect your appearance. 
People have noticed it, Mrs. Arkell, for example.” 

“ I don’t want to disappoint Cuthbert by playing badly 
at his concert.” 

“ I think you might have agreed to play with a better 
grace in the first instance,” said her mother. “ It is a 
225 


Q 


Love with Honour 


great pity to give people bad impressions ; I believe you do 
it out of bravado.” 

‘‘ ‘ What’s he to Hecuba or Hecuba to him,’ ” quoted 
Laura. 

“It is certainly more graceful to be civil. . . . You like 
Cuthbert, don’t you ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I get on very well with Cuthbert.” 

“ Mrs. Arkell takes a great interest in you, Laura,” said 
Mrs. Dampier, after a few minutes’ silence. 

“Yes ?” said Laura, coldly. 

“ Why do you dislike Mrs. Arkell ? ” 

“ I don’t dislike her ; we are always very friendly.” 

“ Yes, but you don’t let her see your most attractive side. 
You are not responsive with her; Mrs. Arkell likes re- 
sponsive people.” 

“ I can’t gush, mother.” 

“ No ; but when she goes out of her way to be kind you 
might meet her halfway. The Arkells might help you so 
much, and would be only too glad to do so. They know 
so many people. I have not neglected you, but I have 
lived so long out of the world that I have perhaps allowed 
you to become gauche, Mrs. Arkell would like to give you 
hints about your dress. She does not like the way you do 
your hair; it is neither fashionable nor becoming” 

“ I don’t think it was very nice of Mrs. Arkell to tell 
you that.” 

“ She didn’t say so in so many words,” said Mrs. 
Dampier, nervously. “ She implied it. Why don’t you try 
to do your hair higher from your forehead ? It would 
increase your likeness to your father ; he was considered a 
very handsome man.” 


226 


Love with Honour 

“ Did Mrs. Arkell think so ? ” 

“ I don’t think she ever saw your father ; has she ever 
said so ? ” asked Mrs. Dampier, anxiously. 

“Oh, no 5 but I suppose she has seen Uncle Alfred’s 
portrait of him.” 

“ Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Dampier. She waited a moment, 
sunk in thought. “ That is not a very good portrait of 
your father, Laura,” she continued. “ Don’t tell Alfred I 
said so ; he thinks it wonderful.” 

“ He ought to be a good judge,” said Laura, loyally. 

“ He’s not infallible ; you seem to accept whatever he 
says, on any subject, without question. You must remem- 
ber that your experience of people is very limited, nor do 
you make the most of your opportunities. Sir Francis 
Arkell was very pleased with you.” 

“ Didn’t he say I wasn’t much like a Dampier ? ” 

“Yes, but that is the ridiculous way you do your hair,” 
answered Mrs. Dampier, irritably. “ As I say, you cause 
all sorts of comments.” 

They were silent for a little while. Presently, with a 
sudden fierce tenderness, Mrs. Dampier crossed the room 
and hung over Laura where she sat on the music stool. 

“ Laura,” she whispered, “ you really do care to follow 
my wishes ? ” 

Laura caught her hand and, slipping it round her neck, 
kissed her fingers. 

“ You know Cuthbert Arkell is very fond of you.” 

Laura did not answer. 

“If he should ask you to marry him, you’ll not refuse?” 
asked Mrs. Dampier, still in a whisper. Still the girl did 
not speak. 


227 


Love with Honour 


“ Laura, Laura,” said her mother, in a voice shaken with 
sobs, ‘‘do just this for my sake. I am a miserable woman, 
dearest; it is the only hope left me to see you happily 
married, before, before — I carCt tell you, dear, Fve tried, 
but I can’t. You’ll never know how I love you — girl ! ” 

The last word was uttered in a spasm of mingled tender- 
ness and grief. It was as if all the memories of the 
unhappy woman’s life were concentrated in that moment, 
the fierce joy and the agony of early days incarnate in her 
child. Laura, with white face and closed eyes, leaned her 
head against her mother’s breast. Thus clinging together, 
all misunderstanding was forgotten : it was a bitter-sweet 
moment, probably the happiest of Mrs. Dampier’s life. 
They spoke together in the broken language of infancy. 

“Forgive me, forgive me, Laura — whatever I have said 
— or done. You don’t know how cursed I am. I’m afraid, 
afraid, Laura, I’m crazy with fear. I’m not myself, I’m 
another woman, a driven thing.” 

“ Can’t I help you, mother ? ” whispered the girl. 

“ Only what I asked you; it means everything to me.” 

“ But I don’t love him.” 

“ Oh, try to, pray that you may. I can’t pray any more. 
Do you think it would be wicked if you prayed God that 
you might love Cuthbert, for my sake ? ” 

“ But why need I marry at all ? ” 

“ Because, dear — oh, I can’t explain it to you. I know 
he is affected and idle, but he is not bad in his life ; we 
know everything about him. You don’t know how much 
that means. If you don’t marry him and there should be 
some one else, I may not be alive to see him and know 
what he is. I would rather you died, little girl, than 
228 


Love with Honour 


married a man I had not seen. I can judge men ; I have 
suffered, I know. Don’t be guided by anyone else in this 
world. Don’t trust your own heart, listen to me. I have 
suffered through my heart, God knows.” 

‘‘ What makes you think Cuthbert will ask me to marry 
him, mother ? ” said Laura, in the dead voice of one stupid 
with grief. ‘‘We have known each other all these years, 
and he has never hinted at such a thing.” 

“ I don’t know what tells me, but I am certain that 
while you are staying with Mrs. Arkell, Cuthbert will ask 
you to marry him. Promise me, that you will say ‘ yes,’ 
promise.” 

“ I promise,” gasped Laura. 

“Say it after me, ‘If Cuthbert Arkell asks me to 
marry him, I will not refuse.’ ” 

Laura repeated the words. 

They clung together in the darkened room, mother and 
daughter sharing each other’s agony. 


229 


Chapter XVIII 


A CONCERT in Cleeve is a very serious matter: 

there are so many things to be considered be- 
sides the programme, and the laudator temporis 
acti may congratulate himself that there is at 
least one corner of the United Kingdom where the artist is 
kept in his proper place. This is no doubt owing to the 
fact that Cleeve is a suburb of one of the most important 
musical centres out of the metropolis ; hence the distinction 
cannot be too sharply drawn, and in Cleeve the intelligent 
amateur is a local weakness, like Buxton goitre or Bath 
generals. Good Barstovians when they die go to Cleeve 
and give chamber concerts. If you are introduced to a 
brilliant composer in Cleeve, you are made to understand 
that in his better moments he is the son of a bishop. Sym- 
bolically, Cleeve concerts are given in the Albert Rooms — 
a building sanctified by conservative balls and religious 
meetings ; thus Cleeve extends to the artist her formal 
recognition. 

It was here that Cuthbert Arkell had arranged his con- 
cert to take place. It should be explained that his object 
was the collection of funds for the building of a Free Pump 
Room where poor patients — by election — might have the 
benefit of those waters for which Cleeve is famous. Cuth- 
bert Arkell was considered eccentric, but even he knew that 
a public concert in Cleeve without an object was a thing 
impossible. He was rewarded for his discretion by a rapid 
sale of tickets, particularly for the higher-priced seats. He 
himself was popular, and his programme was excused, not 
230 


Love with Honour 


only by its object, but by the introduction of that which 
the soul of Cleeve loved — a pianist who was also a lady. 
Cleeve had hesitated just for so long as it required to be 
circulated that Miss Dampier gave her services, and that her 
name was to appear on the programme as ‘‘ Miss Crouch” ; 
then the booking went on with a rush, and Cuthbert Arkell 
became the centre of interested drawing-rooms. Laura was 
subjected to a great many functions, and Mrs. Arkell grew 
daily more certain of Shotworth — so certain, indeed, that 
she neglected her Morning Post and missed the announce- 
ment of Lord Belsire’s death. 

On the evening of the concert everything looked rosy. 
There had been a morning of dire apprehension. Laura 
had caught cold the night before, probably in returning from 
a dinner at the Laings’. She had awakened hoarse and 
shivering, and anyone but Mrs. Arkell would have seen that 
the evening was a serious risk. Her gradual rise of tem- 
perature during the day had the effect of making Laura 
feel more than fit for her task, and by the evening she was 
in that exalted condition, of almost slight delirium, in which 
the person of artistic temperament is most happy in his work. 
At their early dinner she was excited and talkative, respond- 
ing to Cuthbert’s jokes with a gaiety Mrs. Arkell mistook 
for provocative archness. That lady pledged Laura, with 
tears in her eyes ; and afterward invaded Cuthbert’s dressing- 
room in dishabille, to whisper all her hopes. 

“ It is now or never, Cuthbert,” she said hysterically ; 
“ she is more than ready, she expects you to speak. JVhat 
an idea this concert was ! You will not be troubled with 
any self-consciousness in Laura to-night. It will make it 
so much easier ; she will hear the voice of her heart unhin- 

231 


Love with Honour 

dered by any silly fancies. My dear boy, I envy you ; it is 
so poetically right, exactly the betrothal to appeal to your 
temperament. ... You must speak to her immediately 
afterward, while her nature is expanded in a sea of praise — 
you see I can be poetic when I like. Make it your reward, 
so to speak, for this evening.” From the door she added, 
‘‘Just three tiny rooms at Shotworth, Cuthbert, for your 
poor old Mummy.” 

The business of management kept Cuthbert’s ardours in 
abeyance, though he lost no opportunity of paying Laura 
little graceful attentions, to the scorn of the other artists, 
who, from previous experiences of Cleeve, supposed the 
preference a recognition of Miss Crouch’s social position. 
Among the audience there was quite a ferment of specu- 
lation ; those who already had made Laura’s acquaint- 
ance wore a look of conscious superiority*, and quite an 
amount of social business was transacted over question and 
answer. 

“ So this is really her coming out ; what an extremely 
odd idea ! ” 

“ Isn’t it ? But, you know, the Dampiers can afford to 
do that sort of thing. Besides, she is a protegee of Mrs. 
Arkell’s, and you know Mrs. Arkell’s way of doing things ; 
she would die rather than be conventional.” 

“ Nice looking ? ” 

“ Quite beautiful — in an uncanny sort of way ; and her 
manners are charming, not a bit slangy or forward. One 
would never believe she had been brought up in a little 
village.” 

Presently it was whispered, “ Boutflower is coming.” 
Boutflower was the great man of the local musical world. 

232 


Love with Honour 


He was really of Barstow, and had only lately achieved 
Cleeve, where his origin and genius were palliated by the 
eccentricity of his manners. Boutflower slid into his seat 
with an immense air of unimportance ; to look at him you 
would have supposed him quite an ordinary person. Bout- 
flower talked pig ; it was his aim in life to be mistaken for 
a country squire. When the silence resulting from his 
entrance had subsided, there again arose that drowsy mur- 
mur, the combined hum of the infinitely little. 

“They say Cuthbert is smitten, but that his mother has 
made him promise never to marry, as a protest against the 
baronetage.” 

“ I don’t think that can be true, because Mrs. Arkell told 
mother in strict confidence that she had every reason to 
hope she would be able to announce the engagement before 
very long. Major Vassall, who is Laura’s guardian, was 
not satisfied with Cuthbert’s prospects, or something.” 

“What are they doin’? Trio, Raff; goin’ in for new 
composers. Discovery of Cuthbert’s, I suppose.” 

The first numbers of the programme flowed over the 
audience like a petrifying solution, stiffening what little ex- 
pression there was out of their faces. Here and there an 
intelligent amateur simpered or frowned. Intelligent ama- 
teurs do not go to concerts to be pleased. Boutflower, from 
long practice, had acquired the art of wearing a critical 
expression while sound asleep. Whenever he snored, or 
rather snorted, his daughter, an angular young woman with 
a large forehead, turned peony red and pinched his hand. 
Then he murmured appropriate sentiments, eagerly listened 
for and reported. Once Boutflower mystified Cleeve by 
exclaiming in a loud voice, “ Same again.” It was under- 

233 


Love with Honour 


stood by Boutflower’s intimates that the remark did not 
apply to the music. 

Laura’s appearance on the platform occasioned a flutter 
of programmes. The return of expression into the faces 
of the audience was almost audible ; one saw every shade 
of curiosity, from open-mouthed wonder to captious analysis. 
The women put up their glasses and breathed hard ; the eyes 
of the men travelled from Laura’s face to her feet and back 
again. Here and there one saw the side of a mouth work 
in a whispered comment, the eyes of the speaker maintain- 
ing their greedy stare at the girl. Laura was indeed looking 
her best. She was dressed in white, with a single band of 
dark blue velvet at her throat forcing up the warm tones 
of her skin and hair. The touch of fever had given her a 
little colour ; she was not at all nervous, her advance to the 
piano neither hurried nor reluctant. She was immediately 
in sympathy with the audience ; they were for her part of the 
instrument, and her glance at their faces was entirely critical. 
She sat down to the piano without any coquetry, yet there 
was a "momentary turn of her head as if she were taking her 
listeners into her confidence. “ Come, listen to me,” she 
seemed to say, ‘‘ I am going to tell you something beautiful.” 
From the door of the female artists’ room one caught the 
mature profile of the soprano, cut off at the level of the 
platform, studying Miss Crouch’s dress. The male per- 
formers, violin, ’cello, and their accompanist, had retired 
to drink beer; from their room came the faint pop of a 
cork. The head of the soprano turned away, apparently in 
argument, and her door was closed. 

Cuthbert had arranged Laura’s selection of pieces with 
considerable skill. He was acute enough to know that her 

234 


Love with Honour 


technical ability was not remarkable; that there were 
probably at that moment a dozen academy students who 
could have bettered her execution. But she had a touch 
that no academy could teach her, and the temperament of a 
poet. She played the “ On the Mountains ” of Grieg. 
With the opening chord, simple yet magical as a fairy horn, 
Boutflower sat up and scratched his ears. Cuthbert, from 
a corner of the front row, watched him narrowly. He could 
see that the musician reserved his opinion about the tempo 
of the subject in unison, though he was at one with Laura 
in her conception of the rhythm — not so simple a matter 
as it appears — as was betrayed by the unconscious nod of 
his head on the accented notes. The door of the artists’ 
room opened an inch, and the irrepressible soprano peered in. 
With the sensational change from the crash of avalanches to 
the pipe of the herdsman, Boutflower abandoned his critical 
expression for one of perplexity, which increased to the end 
of the piece. Then he turned to his daughter, who was 
gazing at Laura in humble worship. 

“ Old Rabodanges, did you say ? ” Cuthbert heard him 
whisper sharply, “ Damn him.” Rabodanges was Laura’s 
master ; he was not present, disapproving of her public ap- 
pearance at this period. There was plenty of applause. 
Boutflower turned in his seat, with a bitter smile. “ Ah,” 
he seemed to say, “ if you only knew how just you are^ 
sometimes.” There was a deep sigh of relief ; then the 
chatter began again, only this time one might have noticed 
a guarded sound in the remarks, a touch of irritation. People 
looked covertly and a little indignantly at Boutflower ; it was 
unfair not to give them a lead. So the encore, otherwise 
inevitable, was missed. 


235 


Love with Honour 

Cuthbert met Laura at the door of the artists’ room ; 
she was shivering with excitement. He placed her cloak 
round her shoulders, and, as she raised her hands to fasten 
it, with a sudden impulse caught and kissed her fingers. 
She laughed with, “ O Cuthbert ! ” as at an accident. 
Cuthbert heartily cursed the soprano, who came forward at 
that moment with interested eyes. 

‘^The fools,” she said laconically, referring to the 
audience ; “ but, my dear, you ought to be in bed. Mr. 
Arkell, get her some whiskey.” 

Oh, no, thank you ; I am really quite well,” cried 
Laura. The soprano grunted and resumed her knitting. 
Through the open door they could see the faces of the 
three instrumentalists, a little flushed with their supper. 
They were tuning their instruments and carrying on a con- 
versation at the same time. He who played the ’cello had 
his back to them, showing a fat red neck overlapping his 
collar, and thick, outstanding ears ; the others were chaffing 
him about his affection for trifle. The pianist surrepti- 
tiously popped the end of a sandwich into his mouth, mur- 
mured “ one, two, three,” and they slid off into a trio of 
Mendelssohn, stealthily, like plotters, the dulled sound of 
their instruments increasing the effect of conspiracy. Laura 
was curiously interested ; she wondered if she, too, in time 
would come to that indifference — only apparent, for the men 
were finished players. Cuthbert mistook her preoccupation 
for sentiment, and murmured his delight at her success. 

‘‘ You don’t know what an impression you have made ; 
you will be quite famous to-morrow. Boutflower is fright- 
fully savage. I wish poor old Rabodanges had been here ; 
I shall send him a wire first thing in the morning. He was 
236 


Love with Honour 


horribly afraid you were not ready for a public perform- 
ance.” 

‘‘ Are the Ferrars here ? ” she asked. 

Oh, yes,” said Cuthbert. ‘‘ Lydia is livid in pale 
blue.” He was pleased by the question, imagining that 
Laura was led to ask it by anxiety that Lydia Ferrars 
should witness her triumph. Lydia was supposed to be 
pining for him. The association of ideas caused him to 
observe : — 

‘‘ I sent Surtees a ticket, but he hasn’t turned up. Our 
man saw him at Newbury, on the Flats, this afternoon j he 
said he was spending the night there.” 

Laura did not answer. Cuthbert watched her closely, 
expecting some betrayal of feeling. There was none, for 
him, though Laura’s eyes were out over the sliding waters 
of the Severn, and searching the shore for another man’s 
image. She recovered herself with an effort. The sea- 
like echo of applause came to them as the trio ended ; they 
could see the practised grimace on the faces of the men as 
they bowed their acknowledgements. The soprano rose from 
her chair, still knitting, until she reached the door ; then 
she laid aside her work, and, yawning, ascended the short 
stair, to be heard presently in a song of Brahms. A few 
minutes later there was a knock at the door of the artists’ 
room; the caretaker of the hall wished to speak to Mr. 
Arkell. There was a whispered conversation outside, and 
Cuthbert came back with a long face, asking Laura to 
excuse him. 

“ I say,” he said, “ this chap Danvers hasn’t turned up ; 
to tell you the truth I had forgotten all about him. It’s a 
beastly nuisance ; I must go and see what can be done.” 

237 


Love with Honour 


He went round by the passage under the stage to the 
men’s room. The trio seemed highly amused by Cuth- 
bert’s vexation when he mentioned the missing singer by 
name. 

“ Guy Danvers ? ” they laughed in chorus. “ Did you 
send him his ex’s in advance ? Oh, he’ll not come.” 
“ Three to one in half-crowns,” added the piano to the 
violin, “ that Danvers doesn’t turn up.” “Taken,” replied 
the other. The ’cello absently pocketed the coins held out 
to him, and spoke earnestly to Cuthbert. 

“ Sir,” he said, “ that is why Danvers is what he is. He 
might be big, but he never keeps his engagements, so he 
sings in third-rate halls. If I may suggest, you will go on 
at the end of this, and apologise. I myself think that Mr. 
Lawson,” he indicated the piano, “ will lose his money ; 
Danvers will arrive in the second half.” It was agreed 
that the men should arrange matters with Danvers should 
he come. Cuthbert went on the stage, to be greeted with 
a storm of applause. He gracefully apologised for the 
omission of the next item on the programme. One could 
never, he said, humorously, account for the eccentricities 
of great musicians ; it was probable that “ Mr. X ” would 
appear later, when he believed his audience would be amply 
rewarded for their consideration. There was a noise of 
hands and feet ; people were in a good temper and the little 
touch of mystery piqued their curiosity. 

There was no doubt as to Laura’s reception when she 
next came before them. Boutflower, who had slept — this 
time ostentatiously — through the other numbers, arranged 
himself in his chair and took out a pencil case. The 
number was a Chopin selection — the Waltz in A Flat and 
238 


Love with Honour 

the Third Polonaise. Perhaps Laura was most at home in 
Chopin, who, of all composers, demands, not an intellect, 
but a nervous system, from his interpreters. At the end, 
Boutflower shouted a single harsh “ Bravo ! ” and shut his 
jaws with a snap, scribbling furiously on a visiting card. 
The applause shook the roof, and an encore was insisted on. 
When Laura again returned to the artists’ room, she was 
white and gasping. This time the soprano asked no 
questions, but met Laura at the door with a glass of sherry. 

“ The brutes,” she said, snatching Laura’s cloak out of 
Cuthbert’s hands. Mr. Arkell, unless you’re a lunatic 
you’ll have a doctor waiting at Miss Crouch’s hotel.” 

The appearance of an attendant with Boutflower’s card 
created a diversion, and stopped for a moment Laura’s 
chattering teeth. The great musician had scribbled the 
words : — 

‘‘ From one artist to another; I kiss your hand.” 

The soprano tittered, but shook Laura by the hand. 

“ It’s his way,” she said hoarsely, “ but he means it ; I 
congratulate you with all my heart.” 

During the interval between the two halves of the pro- 
gramme Laura was discussed with enthusiasm. Mrs. Arkell 
sat smiling, divided between anxiety for Laura’s obvious 
indisposition and a picture of Shotworth growing more 
vivid every moment. It will be all right to-morrow,” 
she assured herself, “ then Laura can rest.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Arkell,” growled old Lady Cosgrave, 
the leader of Cleeve society, “ where have ye hidden her all 
this time ? I shall never forgive you. Bring her to me 
to-morrow if ye hope to live. An’ tell Major Vassall from 
me he’s a horrid man.” 


239 


Love with Honour 


People had an astonishingly keen memory of Mrs. 
Dampier. 

‘‘ She was a great beauty, my dear, and Laura seems as 
if she would take after her. I remember how shocked we 
were when Captain Dampier died suddenly — somewhere 
in France. It must have been a dreadful time for her, poor 
thing, and she not with him ; Laura was not born, you 
know.” 

“ And who is this wonderful Mr. X, Master Cuthbert 
has hidden up his sleeve ? It’s my belief it’s all a hoax, 
unless he really has engaged Prenton Barry, or one of 
those people.” 

Cuthbert was too vexed over the non-appearance of 
Danvers to pay much attention to Laura, or the people 
who approached him. Once, when he leaned across his 
mother to speak to some one, she said, “ Remember,” in a 
tragic voice. His reply was so curt that Mrs. Arkell 
imagined he had already remembered with disastrous 
effect, and Shotworth paled. Cuthbert kept one eye and 
ear on the artists’ room. 

About halfway through the second part of the programme, 
when Laura was nearing the end of her last piece, — 
Beethoven’s ‘‘ Pastorale ” Sonata, — the trio, who sat smok- 
ing, were startled by the opening of the outer door of their 
room. Guy Danvers entered hastily. The three looked 
significantly from him to each other; but Danvers was 
quite sober. He bowed stiffly to the others, and threw off 
his overcoat, with the curt explanation, “ missed my 
train.” He asked who was to accompany him, and was in 
the act of spreading out his music before the pianist, when 
a crash of applause marked the end of Laura’s piece. 

240 


Love with Honour 


The men beat their heels on the floor, and exchanged 
enthusiastic comments. Danvers looked up interrogatively. 

“Miss Crouch — amateur,” explained the ’cello; “most 
promising girl I’ve heard for years. Pupil of old Rabo- 
danges — s-sh, what’s she going to give for an encore ? ” 
Laura was now completely out of her own hands. She 
rose and bowed mechanically to the audience, with a child- 
like naivete that made them shout again. She looked out 
into the black cave of the auditorium, and it became shouting 
water, touched here and there, where the white shirt of a 
man reflected the footlights, into moonlit ripples. Her eyes 
were searching up and down, her lips moved slightly. She 
understood that she must play again, and, with a half 
querulous, “ Oh, but I’m so tired,” sat down to the instru- 
ment. She hesitated for a moment, frowned, and passed her 
hand over her forehead. The heroic swing of the Andante 
she had just played suggested music of the same character ; 
and she began the “ Song of the Morning ” she herself had 
transcribed from hearing Mark whistle it. The notes of 
the trampling refrain came back, deadened, into the artists’ 
room. The trio heard an exclamation from Danvers. 
Looking up, they saw him, white faced and staring, his 
hands nervously crushing in the roll of music they held. 
He ascended the steps, and, opening the door, peered out 
on to the platform. Laura faced him over the piano ; she 
caught his glaring eyes and was held by them ; it was he, 
not she, who played ; she followed his beating forefinger, 
now pausing, now hastening the time. 

Danvers returned to the others ; he spoke excitedly. 
“Who is Miss Crouch ? ” he cried. The pianist showed 
his dislike to the man in a drawl of exaggerated indifference, 
241 


R 


Love with Honour 

“ Don’t know j Arkell will be here directly.” 

“ Do you know what that was she played ? ” asked Dan- 
vers, impressively. 

“ Never heard it before,” answered the ’cello, ‘‘ some- 
thing of old Rabodanges’, I expect ; very graceful of her.” 

Danvers made a gesture. 

“I — I composed that twenty years ago,” he said grandly. 

“ Really ? ” said the pianist, stolidly. “ Damn that 
woman ! ” as the soprano hung on the edge of a note. 

Danvers chose to be affronted by their apparent incre- 
dulity. 

“ More than that, I intended singing it to-night.” He 
produced a sheet of manuscript music, ‘‘Look at that.” 
The paper passed from one to the other. The coincidence 
was too striking to be passed over ; the musicians stood round 
the agitated man with sympathetic faces. 

“ Hard lines,” said the ’cello. “ Did you ever sing it in 
public ? ” 

“ Never,” stammered Danvers, “ except to a few 
friends.” 

Their conversation was interrupted by the call for Dan- 
vers to sing. He was nervous and uncertain; once he 
nearly broke down. Cuthbert, scowling at him from the 
front row, supposed he had been drinking. In the opinion 
of the audience, the mountain of Cuthbert’s mystery had 
brought forth a very ordinary mouse. At the conclusion of 
the concert Danvers inquired eagerly for Cuthbert Arkell. 
He, however, was otherwise occupied. Together with his 
mother and Laura, shrouded in wraps, he stood in the ves- 
tibule waiting for their carriage. Peering out into the street, 
he saw Major Vassall standing under a gas lamp. Laura’s 
242 


Love with Honour 


back was, fortunately, toward them. The major held up 
his hand warningly to Cuthbert, who slipped out into the 
street. Under the light he saw the old man’s face hag- 
gard and drawn. 

“ Get her away out of this,” he said sharply, “ tell your 
mother to take her home at oncej Fve something to tell 
you.” 

Cuthbert returned quietly to the ladies, and, explaining 
that he had to see the other artists, put Laura and his 
mother into the carriage. He went back to Major Vassall. 
The old man bared his head, saying : — 

“ Her mother died suddenly this afternoon.” 


Chapter XIX 

T here were days when, out of herself, Mrs. 

Dampier rose to a desperate light-heartedness, 
and was at one with the season. She had laid 
her plans with the clear-eyed ingenuity of the 
hopeless. During the last week, the vague threats of her 
anonymous correspondent had crystallised into a demand 
for a definite sum of money, to be paid by her for certain 
papers in the possession of the writer. After fruitlessly 
beating her brains for a scheme to raise the sum, impossible 
to her unaided, Mrs. Dampier, as a last resort, decided to 
confide in Major Vassall, so far as the fact of the papers 
was concerned. Her persecutor required a personal inter- 
view ; nothing remained but to fix a date. Mrs. Dampier 
relied on Major Vassall’s honour to acquire the papers un- 
read ; if he failed of that abnegation, there was only one 
thing left for her to do. But no sooner had she made sure 
her escape from dishonour by the unquestionable way, than 
life crowded in, as by conspiracy of joy, reminding her, 
through child and friend and awakening summer, that the 
world was very good. A word from Laura, not more 
tender but more noticed than usual, some fine consideration 
of Major Vassall, a white morning, touched her to tears, 
and her dry-lipped anxiety was for a moment soothed away 
like a monstrous dream. 

She was helped to a false courage by an equally false 
sense of injustice, being made for happiness of the gentler 
sort, flowers, warmth, womanlike occupations. She had 
never wished for feverish pleasures ; she had never but once 
244 


Love with Honour 

risen to passion, and that forlornly like a driven bird ; and 
such a May unfolding aroused all her poignant yearning 
for peace. 

‘‘God cannot be so cruel,” she thought, coming out of 
her green-lit rooms, into that sunned space of lavi^n where, 
already, irises purpled the shadow under the cedars. She 
flung away her shawls, unclasped her hands, and for a while 
stood upright and quiet-eyed. This afternoon she was 
alone, nor feared to be alone. She would never be afraid 
any more, having made ready her house for him that is 
stronger than fear. Far from wishing to die, she had 
never more bitterly craved to live ; but when her hour was 
come, she would go out firmly, decently. She would not 
urge the time, trusting with sublime patience, more than 
courage, that still the blow might not fall. But, if it fell, 
her answer was final ; stilling all whispering, while it fixed 
her stain beyond hope of pardon. Yet, as her pulses leaped 
under the sun, she murmured : — 

“ God cannot be so cruel.” 

For twenty stricken years she had been a creature blind 
and deaf, all her being battened upon by fear, all her quick 
senses turned inward ; now she rebelled, her blood shouted 
in her ears, and the belated entrance of beauty into her 
soul was a bodily anguish. She stooped where the peonies, 
overblown, spilt blood-royal over the border, their faint 
odour like a queen’s regret for splendid sins. There was a 
new anxiety with each flower that lagged in bud ; and it 
came to her like a blow in the mouth that she might never 
see roses again. When she passed under the wall, the 
scent of the lilies of the valley, hidden in the far corner, 
drifted across her face like the echo of a child’s laughter. 

245 


Love with Honour 


Moving, with a happy thought, to the robin’s nest she her- 
self had found in the ivy, she cried out to see that the 
young birds were out of the shell. When she put her 
finger into the nest, the little, blind things opened their 
beaks, together, as with one impulse. Her heart went out 
to the bright-eyed mother bird, sitting near; so ill-starred 
and wrung with agony had been the advent of her own 
child that she had never known the joy of motherhood; 
though starved, the instinct had persisted, and now, after 
twenty years, she hungered for the sound of pattering feet, 
of broken language. Holding one of the fledglings against 
her throat, she shook with the fluttering of its warm, naked 
little body. Across her purpose, beyond the staring horror 
of her end, came the fierce desire to hold a child, of her 
child’s, against her heart. 

She turned away with streaming eyes. “ I have paid,” 
she murmured, God knows I have paid.” 

For the hour her sin was absolved. She had had so 
little joy in her hour of madness, so little joy, such bitter- 
ness. Surely she might be granted this : just to see her 
daughter find that security and happiness in marriage she 
herself had missed, to hold her children on her knee. Her 
blood claimed a belated rapture ; Laura was hers, won out 
of what abysses she did not care. Was not her splendid 
being full vindication of those red moments ? 

She lived again in her blood and May was with her. 
The lean years were forgotten, and once again it was May 
morning lit with king-cups, and one singing. Come what 
would, she had known the hour and the mood and the man 
for once together. By whom was she judged ; who said to 
the flowers, thou shalt not, or checked the random loving 

246 


Love with Honour 


of the birds ? What if, after all, hers had been the abso- 
lute virtue, and these prim observances, by which she was 
held guilty, but faint images of the truth she had reached 
by instinct ? She had been true to her blood, and was 
justified of her sin. 

Being right, then, why need she be afraid ? Let them 
talk, let them cast her out. She had had her hour. Indeed, 
it was not dishonour she dreaded, but the tedious pity, the 
arguments, the explanations. For herself she no longer 
feared ; for her child, martyr to a futile code, she would 
fight desperately. She would meet subtlety with subtlety ; 
whatever means she took to that end were justified ; it was 
not for herself she strove, she was at one with the heart of 
things. If she failed, if by no craft she could win back the 
letters — sole record of her moment of sanity — then she 
would go down, not as one pleading guilty, but as the vic- 
tim of a tepid convention. 

She was filled with a passionate regret for the years she 
had wasted cowering under a tradition. She was again the 
primal woman, and across the years came the sound of his 
voice who sang her soul to flame. Men had fought for 
her, and which had fallen ? Only now she had the true 
savour of that bloody day. Singer, fighter, and slayer, she 
was his to the end of time. They had starved her soul, 
these decorous mourners of the unfittest ; or be sure she 
had up and followed that other to the end of the world. 
She wondered how he had died — for she never doubted he 
too was dead. She fondly pictured him falling in a frantic 
charge, her image leading him on ; or wandering, driven 
like Launcelot into waste places, crying her name upon 
empty air. 


247 


Love with Honour 

So uplifted was she that Esther’s message was heard as 
from the lips of Fate. 

‘‘ A stranger, asking the way to Charlcote House.” He 
had come, then, without a final warning ; but all regret 
was lost in thankfulness for Laura’s absence. 

“ Did he give his name ? ” 

“ No j Mr. Welby offered that I should show him the 
way, but he said he would take dinner first at the public, 
and come over alone.” 

“ Is he old or young ? ” 

A middle-aged gentleman j he came from London this 
afternoon.” 

A middle-aged gentleman, one that could take dinner 
at the public while a woman’s life hung upon his price. 
That was fitting; his callousness suited an age before wis- 
dom had made room for pity. Well, she had her weapons ; 
if they failed, there was the open door. 

‘‘ Go to Major Vassall,” she said, “and tell him to come 
here at once.” 

The note of authority, so new from one who generally 
complained, cowed the girl so that she asked no reason to 
add to her message. 

Then Mrs. Dampier set about putting her house in 
order. With some fantastic impulse, whether of hope or 
despair, she recalled a forgotten interest in her person ; 
made right the heavy masses of her hair, and added a crim- 
son ribbon to her dress. She knew that if ever she had the 
chance of stirring this Galahad’s pulses it was now, en- 
nobled by her awful purpose. In the face of her resolu- 
tion she moved quietly ; less fearful than a bride, but with 
something of a bride’s foresight of the irrevocable. She 
248 


Love with Honour 

went from room to room seeing that all was in order. 
Only by Laura’s door she stood and bowed her face into 
her hands. She recovered herself immediately ; clear-eyed 
craft, not emotion, must be her weapon now. For weeks 
she had made ready for the end, sorting, folding ; only a 
perverse hope had kept her from any written word as to the 
disposal of her personal effects. The so many things she 
would never need again had each their several pang. One 
drawer even she had never dared open, but there was truly 
no need ; as through glass, she could see, though she tried 
to shut out the vision, the little shoes with their worn toes, 
the doll, the lavendered linen. These had been huddled 
away in their day, being emblems of terror; but now each 
had a voice piercing the wood : — 

“ Open your heart, mother ; it is spring again.” 

No ; Mrs. Dampier dared not look in that drawer. 

Major Vassall met her in the library, with quiet gravity. 
She observed with anger that his breathing was unhurried. 

“ You wish to speak to me ? ” he asked, placing for her a 
chair. 

She smiled. 

“ I do not wish to speak to you, but there is that which 
must be said. In half an hour you will hear it from other 
lips ; when you have heard you will be glad that I spoke 
first.” 

The tension of her voice, for all its quietness, made him 
look at her seriously. He saw how her hands quivered on 
the arms of the chair. 

“ Before you speak,” he said, tell me, is it necessary 
that I should know ? ” 

“ Absolutely.” 


249 


Love with Honour 


He closed the door and stood by the French window, his 
hands behind his back. His attitude unintentionally sug- 
gested the inquisitor; Mrs. Dampier felt a sullen rage that 
helped her to be calm. 

“You know why they fought ? ” 

He did not pretend to misunderstand the pronoun, though 
he looked up sharply. 

“On my honour — ” he began. She laughed. 

“You have no need to tell me; I see that you do not 
know. They fought about me.” For a few minutes there 
was a silence in the room. 

“ If you have any pity,” he said, huskily, “ spare me. 
Why should you tell me now ? ” 

“ As I thought,” she answered, in a voice shaken with 
passion, “as I thought. You have suspected it all along.” 

“ I ? no ; but, if your name was dragged in, I see it all 
too clearly. I have borne the shadow of dread all these years 
in silence. It is between God and my soul. Surely, it is 
not necessary that you should punish me by showing me the 
whole depth of it? He, you, I, — all of us, — have suf- 
fered—” 

“ Suffered ! ” she echoed, in a long shuddering breath. 

“ Do you think,” he asked, “ that I have not faced to the 
full so much as I knew ? I do not believe that I can bear 
any more. Margaret, if in some unguarded moment I gave 
the hound his opportunity, if by a look — it could not have 
been more — I betrayed myself, I have expiated in full. 
Why torture me when it is too late ? Are you to blame 
me when Dampier did not ? Is not my share in his death 
enough of sorrow to last me to the grave ? ” 

“ I do not understand what you are saying,” she faltered. 

250 


Love with Honour 


‘‘ How could he blame you when he did not tell you the 
reason ? ” 

‘‘ He ? ” he cried, scornfully. Was it like him ? Can 
you imagine him coming to me and whining, ‘ Vassall, 
this cur spits upon my wife’s name and yours; what 
are you going to do ? ’ He did what was for him the only 
thing to do ; he took it all upon himself. What he owed 
me in justice he paid ; he allowed me to second his quarrel. 
I ought to have guessed that it was I who should have stood 
in his place. I suffer for my blindness, not my fault.” 

‘‘ Surely you are mad, Alfred ; what do you mean ? ” 

He began to pace up and down the room. 

“ That is what perplexes me. If I, as I believed, hid 
my madness so well that even you did not know, how did 
it happen that Cairns discovered that on which he based 
his lie ? ” 

“ Your madness, his lie ; what had you done ? ” 

“ Done ? Nothing, thank God ; unless it was the very 
means I took for my safety that aroused his vile suspi- 
cions. I acted, as I thought, for the best, though it may 
have been from cowardice. Perhaps if I had stayed, if I 
had crushed down my heart, God would have given me 
strength to bear it. It sounds like blasphemy,” he said 
solemnly, but one would almost think that He reserved 
that awful lesson until my sin had found me out.” 

She sat, staring at him. 

“ Sin,” she murmured, “ what can you know of sin ? ” 
The subtlest sin of all, the sin of an undisciplined im- 
agination. Tell me, Margaret, did you really suspect noth- 
ing at the time ? Nor Dampier ? But I am sure he did 
not, or he would not have tortured me with his reproaches : 

251 


Love with Honour 

‘ Vassall, why do you stay away ? ’ ‘ Vassall, old fellow, I 

don’t think it was kind to exchange just when I had mar- 
ried. My wife feels it ; she thinks you don’t like her.’ ” 

Mrs. Dampier rose, as one sleep-walking, and came un- 
steadily toward him, her eyes dilated with worse than fear. 

“ Alfred,” she whispered, “ this is awful j I know now 5 
you loved me.” 

“ Loved you ? ” he said, almost gaily, so tender was his 
voice, “ I shall always love you, Margaret.” 

‘‘ O God ! ” she moaned, turning away her face, ‘‘ to 
learn this — now. Why didn’t you speak ? ” she cried, 
catching at his arm. “ If, as you say, you watched your 
words and ways so that he never knew, why, in the name 
of Pity, didn’t you speak after his death? You could 
have saved me all these years of misery ; you could have 
saved Laura, if, as you say, you loved me. I could have 
told you then ; it would have been less hard. . . . 
What law of God or man stood in your way when once I 
was free ? He never knew ; he died, never knowing.” 

“He never knew ? but you said it was for that they 
fought.” 

“ Oh, you make it more than I can bear. Alfred — is it 
too late ? ” 

She saw her one desperate chance. If, as he said, this 
man loved her, he would take her word against the world. 
He, not she, would buy the letters ; together they would 
see them burn. She came nearer; he laid his hand upon 
hers, and looked down at her, smiling sadly. 

“ I could not — afterward. God knows I was innocent 
of any thought of wrong ; but because some idle glance, — 
no, not idle, — some unstifled thought betrayed in a word, 

252 


Love with Honour 

led to his death, there was nothing for me but to use my 
whole life in expiation. How could I, after that, have 
turned his death to my advantage ? It would have been a 
profanation. Besides, thank Heaven, you, at least, were 
true to his memory. My one consolation is that you never 
knew.” 

Then the woman lied. She crept to him, haggard, but 
with artful eyes. 

‘‘Alfred,” she whispered, “I knew; at the time. You 
will understand now why I seemed as if I did not like you. 
I was not sure of myself. Afterward, I was so stupefied 
with the horror of it that I do not know how I treated you. 
Then, as time went on, I began to understand ; I began to 
be afraid of myself. I tried to believe it was gratitude — 
if at any time I have seemed ungrateful, it was because I 
was afraid ; you see that, don’t you ? But I have always 
hoped against my will, hoped you would speak.” She 
stooped suddenly and caught and kissed his cold hands, 
wetting them with her tears. “ Alfred,” she moaned, 
“ surely we have expiated. Speak to me, look at me ; I 
am not an old woman ; I am still not ugly ; we might be 
very happy together. And Laura loves you too ; it would 
be such a joy to her. It is not too late ; you need some 
one to take care of you ; you are older than I, you are 
lonely. I can give you love; you have been so good to 
me.” 

He raised her head, and, stooping, kissed her reverently 
on the forehead. 

“ No,” he said, “ you wrong me ; you wrong yourself. 
We cannot love on his grave, knowing what we know ; 
we should see always his dead face. There was a time 

253 


Love with Honour 


when the temptation was very bitter ; I conquered. Why 
open the old wound ? We are very happy as it is ; we shall 
be happy for many years, please God.” 

“ Happy ! ” she wailed, “ wait until you have heard me 
out.” 

Outside a thrush broke into a sudden passion of song. 
Mrs. Dampier shuddered and pressed her hands over her 
ears. Major Vassall softly closed the French window. 
He led her to a chair, but she would not sit. 

“You are overwrought,” he said. “I will leave you 
now; what you have to tell me can surely wait. Stay, 
I think I can guess what it is ; somebody has heard the 
echo of that business, and you, fearing it might come to 
me by a side wind, sacrificed your own feelings to warn 
me. How noble of you ! I thank you heartily ; that was 
it, wasn’t it ? ” 

He spoke soothingly, but, instead, maddened her. 

“ You fool ! ” she cried, “ you fool ! — unless you are 
deceiving me. Yes, that is it, you have known all along. 
This is your chivalry, this is your humanity, this is the 
legacy he left you. I might have known what was in his 
cold, cruel eyes the day he left me. Oh, it was worthy of 
him ! He could have killed me, but no, he had a finer 
scheme of vengeance than that. And you have well ful- 
filled the trust. For twenty years you have kept me on 
the rack. You learned in a good school, you two. You 
read your Fathers to some purpose ; that was one of their 
exquisite tortures, wasn’t it ? Not to accuse, but to refrain 
from accusing ; to wait, to watch — ” 

He raised his hand. 

“ Margaret,” he said, “ you are beside yourself ; you will 

254 


Love with Honour 


make yourself ill. I will send your maid. Listen — there 
is some one ringing j a caller — the Dallingers, perhaps. I 
will tell Esther you are unable to see them.” 

They heard the door of the dining-room open and shut 
like Fate. Mrs. Dampier caught at her breast, but with 
a violent effort was calm. 

‘‘ I know who that is,” she said, ‘‘ it is one I must see ; 
you must see.” 

This is unwise — ” he began. 

‘‘ Stay,” she said, “ stay and hear me to the last word. 
A moment ago, I pitied you ; now I have no pity left — 
not even for myself.” 

‘‘ As you will,” he answered, “ but, before God, what you 
are saying has no meaning for me, whatever.” 

She disregarded him, speaking in a gasping monotone. 

“ It is you who have brought me to this, you who fling 
me aside when I forget my womanhood and kneel to you. 
I thank you for that, you make it easier so. I could have 
grown to love you only to be more cruelly betrayed ; now 
I hate you. I see that you have always played upon my 
weakness — you and your spies. Oh, I congratulate you 
on your subtlety, it was magnificent, you laid your plans 
perfectly. But for you I could have gone to Cairns when 
Lionel died. He loved me, he would have been proud 
to have me, but you came forward with your ‘ Dampier’s 
memory,’ and ‘ Dampier’s child.’ Pah ! I hate the name, 
I always hated it, do you hear ? I was mad with fear, 
or I would never have married him. He was a fit friend 
for you, cold, watchful, sexless. Cairns was at least a 
man, with blood in his veins ; he was bad, but he loved 
me, and I loved him.” 


255 


Love with Honour 


“You do not know what you are saying; you loved 
that man ? ” 

“ Loved him ! I could strike you dead for that question. 
Could I have come to that if I did not love him ? I am 
not ashamed; where was the shame? Yes, look at me; 
I glory in it. He was poor, he could not marry me, and 
so — but what is the use of talking to you, you with the 
heart of a stone, the blood of a snake. But you shall hear, 
though you cannot understand, you with your Dampier 
this, Dampier that. Fll make the name stink in your 
nostrils. You fool ! cannot you see ? ” 

He crossed over to where she stood panting. 

“ Margaret,” he said, “ before it is too late, think of 
what you are doing. Listen, you have told me nothing, 
I know nothing, I wish to know nothing. You remain 
for me, as you have always been, my dear friend Dam- 
pier’s wife.” 

“ You lie,” she said. “ I was only his wife by the cant of 
your religion; I took his name because I was mad. But 
we will not waste words ; the man is waiting ; I am ready.” 

“ What man ? ” he asked quickly. 

“ The man with the letters.” 

He looked at her blankly ; at the point she could not 
out with it. 

“ I had written to Cairns before — before my marriage. 
He answered once, and then, and then I suppose there 
were difficulties. My father had forbidden him the house ; 
he did not like him, some one had lied about him.” 

Major Vassall drew a long breath. 

“Ah, now,” he said, “now I begin to understand. 
Why didn’t you tell me before? You were foolish 
256 


Love with Honour 

enough to write to this man.” He smiled, with a grim 
light in his eyes. “ He is using the letters to frighten you ; 
why, after all these years, I fail to comprehend. How- 
ever, that is a simple matter, a matter for me. There 
need be no difficulty ; I will see him, I will get these 
letters. Be calm, dear Margaret.” He took out his watch. 

I will go now ; I hope Esther has not told him I am 
here, it will be a little surprise for him. I will return to 
you in a very few minutes with the letters. I should 
advise you to go to your room and lie down ; this has dis- 
tressed you, and I may — well, there may be a little noise j 
Cairns may make a noise.” 

Cairns,” she wailed, “ Cairns is dead “years ago.” 

“ Then how — ” 

“ That is like you,” she said bitterly, “ I ought to 
curse you for that, but I have no anger left. Say what 
you will, I am at your mercy — but wait. You thought 
that Cairns had done this thing; it is what I might have 
expected from you ; fortunately he is beyond the reach 
of your insults. How or when he died, I do not know, 
but only that he was taken before he could destroy the 
letters.” 

“ That was characteristic,” said the major, drily ; “ that 
stamps a man, to die, leaving letters compromising a help- 
less woman.” 

“ That also is like you ; how should you understand why 
he kept them ? However, the letters have fallen into other 
hands ; stolen from his death-bed, no doubt, by some vile 
creature he had helped. This man has tortured me for 
weeks ; he wants money. That,” she added, “ is a situa- 
tion even you can understand.” 

s 257 


Love with Honour 


Major Vassall laughed aloud. 

“ My dear Margaret, forgive me, but this is ridiculous. 
You have lifted a weight from my shoulders ; the affair is 
not even serious. For some reasons I am sorry ; I should 
have liked — ’’ he looked as nearly vicious as was possible 
for him. “ If this fellow is what I suspect him to be, 
we shall need not even money. Believe me, you distress 
yourself without cause ; the thing happens every day. 
A stupid blackmailer gets possession of letters recording 
some indiscretion — ” 

“ Indiscretion — O my God ! ” she moaned. 

But Major Vassall did not hear her. He moved to the 
door with almost boyish alacrity, involuntarily turning back 
his wristbands as he went. His hand on the knob, he 
paused. 

“ Margaret,” he said, ‘‘ do not think me selfish when I 
say that I thank you for what you have told me. It is a 
great blessing to know that, however I erred in seconding 
that awful business, I was at least not guilty of the cause. 
Let me first take you to your room. Then ! ” 

She shook her head ; her breath came in short, dry sobs. 

“No, I must come with you.” 

He hesitated. 

“ Are you sure you are strong enough ” 

“ I will come if it kills me.” 

His face brightened. 

“ Come, that is brave ; that is the race. He would have 
liked that, Margaret.” 

Mr. Anthony Pembridge rose when they entered the 
dining-room; the major with a dangerous alertness, she 
leaning, white-lipped, on his arm. Pembridge bowed 
258' 


Love with Honour 


stiffly; he implied that he had been kept waiting. He 
looked from one to the other with mild surprise. 

“ Miss Laura Dampier ? ” he began. Major Vassall’s 
face darkened. He led Mrs. Dampier to a seat. He was 
disappointed ; one could not use the methods one preferred 
with this sober old gentleman. 

“ Miss Dampier is at present away from home,” he said. 

Mr. Pembridge coughed. “ That is unfortunate,” he 
murmured. 

“ That depends upon circumstances,” said the major, 
drily. “ This lady is Mrs. Dampier ; my name is Vassall. 
I have the honour to be Miss Dampier’s guardian until she 
is of age.” 

Mr. Pembridge waved his hand. 

‘‘Oh, in that case I may as well proceed,” he said, 
gulping down his disappointment at the failure of his care- 
fully prepared dramatic announcement. He fixed his 
glasses and unrolled his papers. 

“ In re the estate of the late Cyril Freke Dampier, 
Lord Belsire, who died intestate on the nineteenth ultimo. 
Major Vassall, I have the honour to inform you that the 
late Lord Belsire, dying without issue, and no collateral 
male relative being forthcoming, his whole personal estate 
reverts, in tail female, to Laura, the only daughter, lawfully 
begotten in wedlock, of Lionel Dampier, deceased — ” 

Mrs. Dampier began to laugh quietly, horribly. She 
leaned her head back upon the cushions of the chair. Her 
white face took no meaning from the laughter that issued 
from her unsmiling mouth. Major Vassall understood 
everything. He made no movement, though his face 
changed from white to crimson, from crimson slowly to 

259 


Love with Honour 


ashen grey. Mr. Pembridge moved fussily to the bell- 
rope. 

“ Shall I ? ” he began. 

“ No,” said Major Vassall, quietly. 

From the corner of Mrs. Dampier’s mouth a little stream 
of blood ran down her chin. Major Vassall noted, as a 
thing in a picture, how it matched the crimson ribbon at 
her breast. Still the woman laughed ; blood and laughter 
horribly mingled out of her ghastly mouth. At last, with 
an effort, as one awakening out of sleep. Major Vassall 
moved over to where she swayed. He kneeled on the floor 
and rested her head on his shoulder. 

“ Leave us,” he said harshly. 

“Sir, sir — let me send a maid,” implored Mr. Pem- 
bridge, wringing his hands. 

“ No ; she will be better presently.” 

But when she had ended laughing she was dead. 


/ 


260 


Chapter XX 


M ark awoke, as by intention, between a 
stealthy dawn sliding over the hills and a 
wan river that thrilled over shallows as if 
in the same secret. He was midway be- 
tween the Severn and the embankment marking the line 
where fields proper ended and the Flats began. Newbury 
was up the creek, now terraced mud, and hidden by an 
angle of blown coppice, straggling timber carved into the 
margins of some invisible windway, sketched out faintly 
but surely as the alternating tide and turmoil of the drained- 
out river had recorded themselves on the land. A channel 
of clear water, locked at either end, ran from the creek, and, 
curving, into the greater stream ; so that the van stood 
upon a triangular grassy island. The last human sound 
Mark had heard was the voices of men shutting down the 
locks at full tide the night before. All night Severn had 
fallen away, and now his deeper note was broken upon by 
the gush of water forced through crevices in the worn tim- 
ber and dashed white on the river bed below. Mark laved 
the sleep from his eyes in the coldest water that ever was ; 
cold and clear, with every blade of grass growing beneath it 
sharp as in a glazed painting ; water crisped and cusped by 
the sly faint wind that tiptoed along, and here made silver 
grey, there, shook the trees beyond the dyke as with green, 
silent laughter. The night of sleep was gone in a moment, 
and he hailed a purpose as keen as when, seven hours before, 
it faded into his dreams. The quaint character of the place 
was in key with his own mood of being up before the world. 

261 


Love with Honour 


There was a hint of topsy-turveydom in every direction : 
the sudden spars of a boat, mud-stranded in the creek, rising 
sheer out of level cow pasture ; sea poppies with last year’s 
long, leathery seed vessels, half animal, like those arabesques 
where acanthus takes to itself a beak and claws or dolphins 
blossom into Tudor roses. 

As Mark dried his face he realised that there were two 
definite aspects of the place to be recorded. There was 
not only that he set out to do, the purfled ribbons of river, 
the sleek sand, the faint hills ; but full in his eyes, above 
little thickets isled in vapour, the breast-like eminence 
topped by Newbury church. This eastern view must be 
caught quickly, before the sun shouldered up from his am- 
bush behind the tump ; and Mark thanked his foresight in 
arranging backed plates overnight. It was all a matter of 
vivid sky line, and here the photograph, like the sonnet, is 
“ a moment’s monument.” 

The tone problems of the river bed were for leisurely 
consideration, and Mark selected his points of view with 
fastidious care. After exposing half a dozen plates, he 
decided to wait until sun and mist allowed an outline of 
the hermit’s island — or rather peninsula — far away down- 
stream on the opposite shore. While he waited he men- 
tally licked his lips over the subject : broad flat reaches of 
half-toned mud and flashing pools, narrowing up to one 
exquisite inch of conflict where water-line, cloud, and point 
came together. He had acquired the trick of talking to 
himself aloud, and, as he stood framing the picture in his 
hands to include an arc of embankment, he cursed the 
figure of a woman coming toward him. She was dressed 
in a grey hooded cloak, and walked limpingly, though ap- 
262 


Love with Honour 

I parently in haste. Mark had sufficient experience of the 
tenacity of the foreground loiterer to make as if interested 
in the opposite direction ; when the woman, leaving the 
dyke, broke into a run, and he saw it was Laura Dampier. 
She was brought up suddenly by the channel, ran this way 
and that, and, as he started forward, cried out : — 

“ Mark, Mark, you must help me over.” 

When she stretched out her hands to him her cloak fell 
away, and he saw that her arms were bare to the shoulder. 
He leaned so that he caught her fingers, and she jumped 
across. He steadied her with his arm and would have held 
her thus ; but she, placing her hands on his shoulders, 
pushed him away for a moment, and looked deep into his 
eyes. Apparently satisfied, she bent forward and kissed 
him on the mouth. Her lips were dry and burning. 

“ There is that you gave me half a year ago,” she said. 
“ Mark, I am coming with you ; all the world is gone to 
pieces, and only you and I are left. But you must hide me 
— hide me quick ! ” 

She ended with a sudden rigour, her teeth chattering, her 
slender body shaken. Mark was dazed with apprehension, 
the dreamlike joy of her coming dashed with fear. As he 
hurried her to the shelter of the van, he saw that she was all 
but shoeless, her white arms torn with brambles. She sank 
down on the shaft of the van with a little shuddering laugh. 

Oh, I am so glad to be here ; I thought I should never 
get to the end of that awful dyke. I was not afraid of 
the dark, but I got so tired, and I am dying of thirst.” 

“ What does it mean — what has happened ? ” he mur- 
mured, kneeling beside her. 

“ Get me a drink, dear, please, and then Pll tell you.” 

263 


Love with Honour 

He got her water from the van, and returned for his 
overcoat. Wrapping it round her, he realised that she was 
dressed as for the evening ; he remembered the concert. 

“ Good heavens ! ” he groaned, “ you’ve never walked 
from Cleeve ? ” 

She nodded with a little chuckle. 

“ Every bit of the way ; I came over the Downs, through 
Hensthorpe and under Austin Cliff. How the ribs shone 
in the dark ! and I thought the cliffs were going to fall on 
me ; you know how the stones rattle ? It was the only 
time I was frightened ; I thought I was going to be buried 
alive. But it is all over now. You won’t send me away, 
Mark, will you ? — because I love you — indeed, I do,” 
she babbled piteously. 

“ Send you away ! . . . but why did you come ? ” 

She looked at him with staring eyes, and suddenly clung 
to him, hiding her face against his breast. 

“They frightened me,” she gasped, “they frightened 
me ; you won’t let them frighten me again, will you ? ” 

He tried to reassure her. 

“ But who frightened you ? I thought you were going 
with the Arkells to play at the concert last night.” 

“ Play ! ” she cried, sitting up, and with almost a scream 
of triumph, “ I was all music ; I shook it out of my fingers 
like rain. All the people cried and laughed together ; they 
gave me up their souls to play upon. I held them with 
my eyes ; they stared like rabbits and swayed in time to 
the music. I told them all they had ever done ; I knew 
all their thoughts; and then they got up together and 
rushed at me. Mark,” she whispered, “ they are going to 
bury me alive.” 


264 


Love with Honour 


‘‘No, no,” he murmured, his face in her hair, “they 
can’t touch you here. But how did you get away ? 
I thought Mrs. Arkell was taking care of you.” 

“ Hush,” she said, fearfully, putting her hand over his 
mouth. “ They will hear you and come to look for me. 
They want me to marry Cuthbert ; I promised my mother 
I would if he asked me. I was afraid he was going to 
ask me last night ; but he didn’t. Mrs. Arkell did, but 
that was not the same, was it ? You don’t think I was 
breaking my promise to my mother, do you, Mark ? . . . 
They want to bury me alive, as they buried my mother.” 

He had a gleam of insight. 

“ You have had some bad news ; your mother is ill ? ” 

“My mother is dead,” she answered gravely; “she died 
when I was born ; didn’t you know ? That was why they 
buried her ; she wasn’t all dead, you know, only her soul. 
I suppose it was a trance. She has been in a trance for 
twenty years. And last night she woke up and tried to get 
out ; she always said Charlcote was like a grave. I think 
I woke her with my playing ; I played the ‘ Song of the 
Morning ’ you taught me ; she tried to get out, and cried, 
beating her head against the walls, and I played louder and 
faster to drown her cries, until the people caught at my 
hands and cursed me.” She cowered against him. 

“ Mark, do dead people bleed ? because my mother bled ; 
Uncle Alfred said so.” 

“ When did you see Major Vassall ; was he at the con- 
cert ? ” 

“ No, no ; he was at Charlcote trying to keep my mother 
from getting out. He came afterward when it was all 
over, and Cuthbert had saved me from the people. But he 

265 


Love with Honour 


wouldn’t speak to me ; he only stared and whispered ; 
I think he told Mrs. Arkell to tell me my mother was 
dead.” She laughed horribly. “ I believe he killed her 
because her soul had come back to her, and that was why 
there was blood on her lips. Why did he shut her up 
when I was born ; was it my fault ? If I had known, 
I would have died, and then Cuthbert could have had my 
hair and eyes and hands ; he wants them, I know, because 
he said so in the poetry he sent me. I can’t die now, be- 
cause I want to stay with you. Why did they shut my 
mother up — was my mother a bad woman ? ” 

“ No, dear,” he said, stroking her hair ; “ your mother 
was a good woman ; but, are you sure she really is dead ? ” 
“Yes, she is quite dead now, with the blood running out 
of her mouth ; Mrs. Arkell said so. They made an awful 
mistake; they said my father was dead, and my mother 
alive; they got it all mixed up.” She clutched his arm : 
“ Mark, who was that man ? ” 

“ What man ? ” 

“ Why, how stupid you are, Mark,” she said fretfully ; 
“ the man who sang, of course. That was why I played 
so well, because he was there. Do you know,” she turned 
to him mysteriously, “ I believe he came to help them 
make me marry Cuthbert ; that was why Cuthbert was so 
angry when he thought the man was not coming. When 
I was playing I happened to look up over the piano, and 
there was his white face peering in through the door from 
the artists’ room. It was then my mother began to cry. I 
wanted to stop my ears, but I couldn’t take my hands from 
the keys ; so I kept on playing louder and faster while he 
beat time. Oh, it was horrible.” 

266 


Love with Honour 


She covered her face ^vith her hands, and sobbed con- 
vulsively. 

“Try to forget it all,” pleaded Mark. “You are over- 
tired and excited. ... I have you here, safely.” 

“ Oh, but I must tell you ; I can’t rest until I have 
told you everything. . . . He had a dreadful face, and 
yet I seemed to know it quite well. . . . Oh, now I 
remember,” she said, in a whisper ; “ I know now why 
I was afraid. I have been afraid of his face ever since I 
was quite a little girl ; sometimes I have dreamed about 
him, and waked up crying.” 

“ Don’t worry your poor head now,” said Mark, shaking 
her arm gently ; “ try not to think about it. Do you know 
I believe you are going to be ill. You are awfully hot, 
and it’s just because you are feverish that you imagine all 
these things. Let me make you some coffee ; I’ll put a 
little brandy in it, and then you can lie down in the van 
and go to sleep.” 

“Yes, that will be splendid,” she said, absently, her 
mind holding on to the one coherent idea, “ but I must 
tell you this. One day, when I was about seven years old, 
my mother was called away from a letter she was writing, 
and I began to turn over the things in her desk. I had 
never done such a thing before ; I suppose it was the dear 
little holes and drawers that tempted me. At the bottom 
of the desk I found a photograph of a man — a soldier 
like my father. I suppose I knew my mother would be 
angry, for I remember that when I heard her coming back 
I tried to bundle the things into the desk. I couldn’t 
make the tray fit into its place, and my mother found me 
with the photograph in my hand. I expected to be pun- 

267 ' 


Love with Honour 

ished, but my mother seemed more frightened than I was 
myself. She spoke to me very quietly and laughed with 
her mouth, but she did not laugh with her eyes ; they were 
wide open. I was so glad not to be punished that 1 ran 
away without saying anything; but some days afterward 
I asked her who the photograph was. She laughed, and 
said, ‘ Oh, that is an old photograph of your father.’ I 
could not understand why the picture was so different from 
the one Uncle Alfred has, and said so ; but my mother 
only laughed again, and said, ‘ Oh, that was taken before 
your father cut off his whiskers.’ I did not like to ask 
any more questions, but I thought about it a great deal. I 
had never seen a grown-up person frightened before, and 
I used to go into a corner and shut my eyes, so that I 
could see the man’s face and my mother with her eyes 
wide open, and her mouth smiling with white lines round 
it. Then I used to shiver and run away. . . . That 
was why the man frightened me last night ; I am sure he 
was the same as the photograph. Oh, Mark, who do you 
think he is ? ” 

“ What did Cuthbert call him ? ” said Mark, with a happy 
thought. 

“ He called him ‘ Danvers,’ but I don’t think that was 
really his name ; he was down on the programme as ‘ Mr. 
X.’” 

Mark was perplexed and alarmed ; Mrs. Dampier’s curious 
behaviour, Mrs. Winscombe’s conversation with her brother, 
his own memory of the singer, all came back to him with 
an ugly significance. Laura’s excursion into the past had 
steadied her, and he seized the opportunity to keep her calm. 

“It’s quite likely the man was a bit like the photo- 
268 


Love with Honour 


graph,” he said, ‘‘ and the half-light, and your excited con- 
dition, exaggerated the likeness. I shouldn’t worry about 
it. Will you sit here while I make some coffee ? You 
don’t seem to realise that you are ill.” 

‘‘ Oh, do you think so ? ” she said regretfully ; “ what a 
pity, just as we had found each other. I feel all right 5 I 
have a little cold, but it isn’t much.” 

She stood up and immediately began to cough. With- 
out further question he lifted her up and carried her 
round and into the van. Mark found it necessary to talk 
so that he should not think of the situation. 

Now, sit here,” he said ; I’ll take the spirit lamp out- 
side and boil the kettle ; I shan’t be a minute.” 

She sprang up and clutched his arm. 

“ Don’t go away, Mark, please don’t leave me. If you 
go, I shall throw myself into the water ; it is better to drown 
than to be buried alive. I don’t need any coffee, indeed I 
don’t, and I shall never sleep again.” 

He saw that her apparent quietness was not to be trusted. 

‘‘ I want some coffee,” he said, with an inspiration. 

“Of course — you haven’t had your breakfast yet; how 
stupid of me. Please make some at once ; we will drink 
out of the same cup.” 

Laura settled herself contentedly in the deck chair he had 
placed for her. She seemed, mercifully, to be numbed to 
the fact of her mother’s death, if indeed it was true ; and 
Mark was in a fever of anxiety lest her mind should go back. 
As he kneeled on the grass beside the kettle it occurred to 
him for the first time that her finding him was a miracle. 

“ Who told you I was here ? ” he asked. 

“Cuthbert; Richard, the Arkells’ coachman, saw you 
269 


Love with Honour 


here yesterday. I was so glad I remembered when they all 
went mad. I sat upstairs saying it over to myself, lest I 
should forget, ‘ Mark is on Newbury Flats ; Mark is on 
Newbury Flats,’ and when the place was all quiet I slipped 
out just as I was. O Mark, what a lot of brandy you have 
put in this coffee ! ” 

“Yes,” he said solemnly, “I always take brandy in my 
coffee.” 

“ Then I will try to like it because I must learn all your 
ways, mustn’t I ? ” 

She sat sipping her coffee, only saying once, “ But I 
thought you said you were thirsty ? I am drinking it all.” 

When she had drained the cup, Mark said, “ Now, listen ; 
if you are going to stay with me you must do exactly as I 
tell you. I want you to settle down and go to sleep. I 
think you will be better when you wake up, and then we 
can talk things over. I must get you indoors, somewhere, 
and send for Mrs. Arkell.” 

Her face fell immediately. 

“ But I don’t want Mrs. Arkell ; I shall be all right in 
a day or two.” 

Mark busied himself with the lockers in the side of the 
van. 

“You can’t stay here, you know,” he said, his voice 
muffled as he turned over the things in the locker. 

“ Why not ? I won’t be in the way ; indeed I won’t. 
If you don’t like to take me into the inns where you put up, 
you can surely find a room for me somewhere else, . . . 
Mark, don’t you want me ? ” 

“You hurt me, dear, when you say that; but don’t you 
see how awkward it would be ? People would wonder.” 

270 


Love with Honour 


But you could say I was your wife, couldn’t you ? ” 

‘‘ I think we ought to speak to Major Vassall first, ” said 
Mark, unsteadily ; “ he is your guardian, you know.” 

‘‘ I don’t see the necessity ; he is sure to raise some 
stupid objection.” 

“Very likely,” admitted Mark, drily, “but he would 
expect to be consulted, and I know you wouldn’t like to 
hurt his feelings.” 

“ N-o, ” she answered. 

“ Look here,” he said cheerfully, “ you try to go to sleep, 
and I’ll think out a plan and tell you when you wake up j 
will that do ? ” 

“ I am rather sleepy now,” she said, “ but you won’t go 
away, will you ? ” 

“ No ; I won’t go away.” He got out a rug and wondered 
how he could best make her comfortable. 

“ Mark,” she said presently, “ do you ever sleep here at 
night ? ” 

He nodded, turning away his face. 

“ Not usually, ” he answered briskly ; “ I dozed here last 
night because I wanted to be up at daybreak.” 

“ Then I shall be quite comfortable, ” she said sleepily. 
Mark slid a cushion under her head. She settled herself 
with a luxurious shrug of her shoulders, and closed her 
eyes. 

“ You may kiss me once, and then I shall sleep soundly and 
dream too. Please wrap up my feet, they are so cold.” 

With shaking hands he removed her tattered slippers and 
wrapped her burning feet in the rug. Then, without dar- 
ing to look round, he slipped out of the van and gently 
closed the door. 


271 


Love with Honour 


For a long time he walked up and down the green, 
subjecting the river to a fiercely critical consideration. He 
bitterly recalled AingeFs axiom, “ One always sees things 
better when the mind is composed,” and tried to persuade 
himself into a regret for his interrupted work. So soon 
as he dared he began to pack up his apparatus, until he 
remembered that it at least suggested occupation if any 
one came. He tried to piece together a meaning out of 
Laura’s broken words, but found it impossible to separate 
fact from fancy, though he suspected that her incoherent 
narrative was a delirious rendering of something that had 
actually happened. Her state of bodily fever was rather 
a consolation than otherwise, since one might allow a wider 
margin for distortion, though it was evident she had received 
some severe mental shock. Mark was unusually un- 
acquainted with sickness, but, although he was unable to say 
what ailed her, he feared that Laura was, or was about to 
be, seriously ill. The thought scared away all speculation 
and helped him to calmness. With the faith of ignorance 
he had put an heroic measure of brandy into the coffee, and 
he hoped fervently that she would sleep for an hour or so. 
Now and again he ventured to lay his ear to the side of the 
van ; once he heard her stir and murmur confusedly. 

It was very important that Laura should be got indoors 
and into competent hands, and Mark’s first thought was to 
go for his horse and take her up to the village. But his 
imagination quailed before the necessary explanations, and 
he was so ignorant of what had happened before her flight 
that he did not care to expose her to the curiosity of 
strangers. There seemed only one woman in the world fit 
to touch Laura, and she was Mrs. Winscombe. It is not 
272 


Love with Honour 


easy to say how much of Mark’s dislike to the idea of 
communicating with Mrs. Arkell was due to the thought 
of Cuthbert. 

The sight of a boy wandering over the Flats, intent on 
the dark policies of childhood, put an idea into his head. 
He called the youngster, and scribbled a telegram to Major 
Vassall. 

“ Miss Dampier here, come at once.” On second 
thoughts, he crossed out the “ Miss Dampier ” ; it would 
give less information to the good people at the post-office, 
and he knew that Major Vassall would understand. He 
directed the boy to wait for an answer, promising him full 
payment for time wasted from golden truancy. 

Deep down in Mark’s heart was a wild joy at having 
Laura, even thus, in his possession. He was young enough 
not to concern himself with the thought that circumstances 
might remove her altogether out of his reach. For the 
hour, she was his, had lain in his arms, and revealed her 
love for him. Nobody could rob him of that hour; and if 
she, returning to health, again hid herself in reserve, he 
knew it was the real Laura \who had come to him with 
only one whole thought in the tumult of her mind, that 
she loved him. 

In about an hour the boy returned, heartlessly slow, 
bearing an answer. 

“ Reach you at noon, driving. Vassall.” 

Mark paid the boy half the sum he had promised, 
telling him to wait at the turn of the road by the church, 
and look out for a trap coming from Thorncastle, an old 
gentleman driving. 

“ Ask him his name, and if he says it is Major Vassall, 

T 273 


Love with Honour 


bring him here at once.” With an afterthought, he called 
the boy back. 

Don’t tell anybody else why you are there ; if you 
send any more boys down here, you won’t get your money. 
Do you understand ? ” 

The boy nodded vigorously, and made off. 


374 


Chapter XXI 


F or a long time Mrs. Arkell refused to believe 
that Laura really had left them. She had used 
her discretion, in softening to the dazed girl the 
news of her mother’s death, to imply that, while 
Mrs. Arkell lived, Laura need not be motherless. The 
warmth of Laura’s response may be gathered from Mrs. 
Arkell’s answer to Cuthbert, when, the next morning, he 
suggested that his mother should go to Laura’s room, 
with sympathy and breakfast. 

“ My dear boy,” she said, “ this is a time when the finest 
of your sex blunders. Don’t you see, for many reasons, I 
don’t want to suggest myself, as it were.” 

An hour later, when anxiety deepened into alarm, and 
Mrs. Arkell was obliged to confess that not only was 
Laura gone, but that she had not changed her dress of 
the night before, Cuthbert shocked his mother by the 
violence of his language. After a hurried discussion, they 
decided that, probably, Laura had made for the house where 
her dead mother was lying. 

“ You stay here,” said Cuthbert, shortly ; “ you can do 
no good until we are certain where she is.” 

Cycling out to Charlcote, he found only a terrified ser- 
vant. Pembridge had returned to the inn, nursing the half 
of his message, torn olF, as it were. 

« Your information,” Major Vassall had said, “ was for 
Miss Dampier. It will be better to consider it unsaid, 
until you see her in person. There are no legal difficulties 
about the delay ? ” 


275 


Love with Honour 


“ None whatever.” 

‘‘Very well 5 you understand that I know nothing.” 

When Cuthbert found that Laura was not at Charlcote, 
the slight elation running through his anxiety disappeared ; 
he was no longer the strong man bearing comfort to a 
stricken girl, but the apologist with an awkward explanation 
before him. The thing had happened easily enough ; it 
was not so easy to prevent Major Vassall thinking lightly 
of Mrs. ArkelPs care of his ward. 

Cuthbert found a tremulous old man with a frosty chin, 
who looked up as he entered, as if to say : — 

“ What trouble do you bring now ? ” Cuthbert made 
his explanation somehow. 

“We gave her into your mother’s charge,” said the old 
man, bitterly ; then, laying his hand on Cuthbert’s arm, 
“ Forgive me,” he said, “I am unstrung.” 

Even in his perturbation, Cuthbert could not help won- 
dering at the entire breakdown of the Major’s usual stoi- 
cism. Sudden death is a fearful thing; but beyond grief 
was an abject, beaten look. With that odd apprehension 
of trifles in the midst of calamity, Cuthbert reflected that 
even death was hardly cause enough for Major Vassall to 
appear unshorn at ten o’clock in the morning. For a 
few minutes they sat in silence, the major leaning his 
head upon his hand. Finally he sat back, with a hopeless 
sigh, his pitiably thin body shrugged together, his elbows 
resting on the arms of the chair, his chin on his clasped 
hands, one lean forefinger pressed against his working 
cheek. 

“ Have you any suggestion ? ” he asked presently. 

“ I can’t think of anything,” said Cuthbert, excitedly. 

276 


Love with Honour 


“ I felt sure she would be at Charlcote ; when I found she 
was not there I came to the end of my resources.” 

“Mrs. Arkell told her nothing beyond the fact of her 
mother’s death, I suppose ? ” 

“ Nothing whatever,” said Cuthbert, feeling the absurdity 
of adding, “ my mother tried to comfort her.” 

“ Then she must have wandered out in sheer grief ; the 
question is, where did she go ? Is it possible, do you think, 
that she went on to the Downs ? ” 

Cuthbert understood and shuddered. The edge of the 
Downs, above the river, was notoriously unsafe. Cuthbert 
got up and began to walk up and down the room. He 
stopped suddenly, with an exclamation. 

“ There is Mrs. Winscombe,” he said, “ I will ride up at 
once and ask if she has heard anything.” He caught up his 
cap impatiently and left the room. He was met at the door 
by Major Vassall’s housekeeper, with a telegram. The old 
man read it without a word, and handed the paper to Cuth- 
bert. He crushed it in his hand, cursing bitterly. 

“ The hound ! ” he cried. 

Major Vassall said nothing ; outside, the boy, kicking his 
heels in the porch, whistled a tune. The woman waited. 

“ Any reply, sir ? ” she said anxiously. 

The major roused himself. He wrote an answer and 
handed it to the woman ; he had to unlock a drawer in 
his desk to get a shilling, and Cuthbert noticed that his hand 
no longer shook. 

“ Ride home at once,” he said, “ and have the dog-cart got 
ready ; come back for me — I will meet you on the road.” 

When he was alone the old man moved over to his prayer 
table 5 halfway he paused. 


277 


Love with Honour 

“What is she to me?” he murmured; and again, “God has 
judged me ; I did wrong to make a religion of his memory.” 
He dared not look at the picture over the mantelpiece. 

When he got up into the dog-cart he was shaved, and 
once more the sharp, authoritative old soldier. 

“Tell me exactly what happened at the concert,” he 
said. Cuthbert gave him a brief account of the evening. 

“ Laura played magnificently,” he said, “ she more than 
justified the step you allowed her to take.” He felt that the 
fact somehow absolved his mother and himself. 

“ Who were the other — performers ? ” asked the major. 

Cuthbert spoke of the people by name, adding, “ and a 
tenor — a man from London.” 

They drove along in silence for half a mile or so, until 
Cuthbert felt the necessity for further speech. 

“ Of course my mother took Laura to and from the 
concert, and the only person she met there was Madame 
Rennie.” 

“ Did you see Surtees at all — in the hall, I mean ? ” 

Cuthbert winced at the question. 

“ No,” he said, “ I think I should have seen him if he had 
been there.” At the moment he disliked the idea that, as 
he said, some instinct would have made him aware of Mark’s 
presence. 

“ Besides,” he added, “ I happen to know he was at 
Newbury in the morning with his van. Richard saw him 
there and spoke to him. Oh — it’s impossible ! ” he cried, 
whipping up his horse. 

The major quite understood what Cuthbert meant, and 
only closed his lips a little tighter, folded his arms a trifle 
closer. 


278 


Love with Honour 


“ Did you notice anything unusual in Laura’s manner ? ” 

“No — I think not. She was naturally rather excited — 
not at all nervous, I should say ; in fact, she seemed in very 
good spirits.” 

“ Do you know if she had any letters during the day ? ” 

“ I don’t think so ; it is almost impossible that she could 
have had a letter without my noticing it ; 1 took up the 
afternoon post myself.” 

“ It is inexplicable,” said Major Vassall. He had seen 
his faith in women come to so ghastly an end that he was un- 
willing to predict even a reasonable amount of discretion ; he 
was ready to believe almost anything. Cuthbert, although 
honestly in love with Laura, and acutely distressed for her 
safety, was anxious to assert his mother’s and his own 
exemplary fulfilment of their charge. He felt that Major 
Vassall had them, unconsciously perhaps, under criticism ; 
and he also resented the old man’s ready acquiescence in the 
idea that Laura had acted on her own initiative. Had he 
analysed his feelings to their elements he would have known 
that the core of his vexation was the fact he concealed, 
that he himself had told Laura of Mark’s whereabouts. 
The logical supposition was so hateful that he stubbornly 
contested the importance of his remark to her, and irritated 
himself by imagining possible channels through which Mark 
had communicated with the girl. All at once he found a 
clue j the idea coming so suddenly threw him off his guard. 

“ I’ve just thought of something,” he said. “ I forgot 
to tell you that the tenor chap was very interested in . Miss 
Dam pier’s playing ; he got quite excited, and asked to be 
introduced to her.” 

“ Is that the usual thing ? ” asked the major, drily. 

279 


Love with Honour 

“ Oh, well, you know,” said Cuthbert, apologetically, 
“ these musical people affect a theatrical sort of style \ it’s 
part of the professional stock in trade.” 

“ They must be pleasant acquaintances for a lady.” 

“ They’re not all like this chap, I assure you,” said 
Cuthbert, earnestly. “ He’s rather a curious sort altogether ; 
has a history, I should say ; talks like an educated man.” 

“ What’s his name ? ” 

Cuthbert laughed. “ There’s no saying,” he said ; “ he 
calls himself ‘ Guy Danvers,’ obviously for effect. How- 
ever, the point is, he is a friend of Surtees.” 

“ Ah, how did he come to be singing at the concert ? ” 

“ I engaged him through Elders — the agent.” 

“ You knew him before, then ; did you become acquainted 
with him through Surtees ? ” 

“ No, Surtees never spoke of him ; the reason is pretty 
obvious.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ He’s not precisely the sort of person one would claim 
as a friend; drinks horribly.” 

“Oh,” said the major, stiffly. 

Cuthbert was annoyed ; he understood the reason for the 
old man’s coldness, and felt that he himself was not entirely 
trusted. The memory of his motive in seeking Danvers’s 
acquaintance was not pleasant. He hastened to anticipate 
the inevitable question. 

“ I met the fellow quite casually at the Vivacity.” 

“ The what ? ” 

“ It’s a music hall in Soho ; I was struck with his style — 
something quite new — and I thought of him when we were 
drawing up this programme.” 

280 


Love with Honour 

“You don’t know his name, he drinks, you met him in a 
filthy music hall, and you allow him to be in the same room 
with her,” said Major Vassall, his voice shaking with 
anger. 

“ The important thing escapes you,” said Cuthbert, 
peevishly. “ This blackguard was an intermediary.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ It’s as clear as daylight,” said Cuthbert, bitterly. “ Sur- 
tees sent some lying message by this man ; how it was 
transmitted, I don’t know.” 

“ But what could he have possibly said that would induce 
Laura to go to him at Newbury ? ” 

“ God knows ; but I see his intention quite plainly. He 
wanted her so to compromise herself that — that — can’t you 
see ? It was a miracle that neither you nor anyone else 
knew of this reversion.” He laughed between his teeth. 
“ Oh, Surtees is a clever devil ! ” 

“ Extraordinarily so,” said Major Vassall, acidly. “ By 
what means do you suppose he became possessed of infor- 
mation that, apparently, the Dampiers’ family solicitor has 
only just received ? ” 

Cuthbert plunged to correct his mistake. 

“ That’s merely a legal form, isn’t it ? ” he said lightly. 
“ A sort of official ignorance. I suppose, even when a law- 
yer is cock sure, he is bound to wait until he is able to prove 
that there is no other relative. Even then, it is quite com- 
mon for some claimant to turn up. I shouldn’t be surprised 
to hear of two or three persons coming forward to contest 
Miss Dampier’s right to the place — remittance men out 
of the colonies, with evidence all cut and dried.” 

“ Not by any means unlikely,” said Major Vassall, suavely. 

281 


Love with Honour 


“ But how, in your opinion, did Surtees manage to exhibit 
such extraordinary acumen ? ” 

“ Nothing extraordinary at all,” said Cuthbert, flurriedly. 
“ It is only our uncommon stupidity — or want of curiosity 
— that makes the deduction seem remarkable. There had 
been paragraphs in the papers about Belsire for the last six 
months, saying that he was on his last legs. There's a type 
of ne'er-do-well who is always on the lookout for some- 
thing of the sort to turn up — anything from begging letters 
to blackmail. The constant repetition of the same para- 
graph would attract his attention ; any public reading room 
would give him the rest of the information he needed. In 
these days, any blackguard can get hold of Burke and 
Debrett — and it's astonishing what a faculty for getting 
up family histories the reading room loafer acquires. Of 
course there are risks; but this sort of scoundrel works upon 
chances. Sometimes he pulls it off, sometimes he doesn't.” 

Major Vassall was looking at the landscape with deep 
interest, a quiet smile playing about his lips. They were 
passing through Thorncastle, between the grey keep and 
the wonderful church, whose tower stands away from the 
rest of the structure. The whole place, with its old world 
repose, its air of honourable quiet, was a fitting contrast to 
Cuthbert's recital of modern sharpness. The major looked 
sympathetically from the church to the keep. 

We are no match for them,” he thought sadly. His 
illusions were falling from him like leaves in autumn ; his 
faith in women, his trust in blood, his confidence in the 
honour of his class. He was left, a grey old man, helpless 
as these grey old stones against the corrosion of progress. 
He could not resist a quiet, bitter comment. 

282 


Love with Honour 


“Most ingenious,” he said; “and was it through these 
channels, Cuthbert, that you, yourself, became aware that 
Miss Dampier was likely to inherit the estate of the late 
Lord B els ire ? ” 

“ I ? ” said Cuthbert, foolishly. “ I only surmised. 
Surtees called my attention to the paragraph in the news- 
paper some time ago. I forgot all about it ; but when you 
told me that Mrs. Dampier’s death was due to shock caused 
by a visit from her solicitor, I remembered the incident, and 
put two and two together. I had no time to ask for par- 
ticulars ; besides, the question did not interest me. My 
attention was entirely taken up thinking about Laura herself, 
poor girl.” 

Major Vassall relapsed into himself. He was too broken 
to sit in judgment. It is probable that the destruction of 
his implicit faith in Cuthbert Arkell hurt him more than 
the apparently greater shock of Mrs. Dampier’s death and 
Laura’s flight. Most men have an instinctive jealousy for the 
honour of their own sex; it is part of the eternal war between 
man and woman. Cuthbert was depressed and sullen. He 
was not given to the spoken lie, and his pride suffered in 
consequence. He was also uncertain how far he had 
fallen in Major Vassall’s eyes. Presently he raised his whip 
and pointed. 

“ The Severn,” he said. 

From the brow of the hill they could see the river, a pale 
yellow ribbon along the horizon. Belowjthem lay miles of 
open country. As they descended, the two men pulled 
themselves together involuntarily, and avoided each other’s 
faces. Each was absorbed in his own thoughts — the major 
hopeless, uncertain what to fear, the other finding an illogi- 

283 


Love with Honour 

cal relief in anger against the man they were going to meet. 
Thus they continued silent for three miles. At the bend 
of the road Mark’s outpost clamoured at them. It had not 
occurred to either, by the way, that they might have difficulty 
in finding them they sought ; they trusted to the unerring 
guidance of fe^r. The boy required conviction before he 
would pilot them to the van. 

“ A said nothin’ about t’other un,” he explained, jerking 
his thumb at Arkell. He walked, under protest, by the 
horse’s head, and, half-heartedly, opened the gate leading on 
to the dyke as if he were lodge-keeper to an estate. For 
that morning the Flats were his — a sacred charge. When 
they had gone as far as was practicable, Cuthbert threw the 
reins to the boy, jumped out of the dog-cart, and, without 
waiting for Major Vassall, strode across the Flats. He 
had worked himself up into a fit of honest anger, which 
lessened his anxiety. 

“ By God, Surtees,” he cried hoarsely, “ I’ll kill you for 
this.” 

Mark looked at him with the deference one gives to the 
beaten man, but said nothing. He had acquired a fine feel- 
ing of maturity in a very few hours ; he was anxious not 
to seem overbearing. 

“ Where is Miss Dampier ? ” said Major Vassall, without 
greeting. 

“ She is here,” answered Mark, gravely. 

Cuthbert cursed him with quivering lips. 

“ Be silent, Cuthbert,” said Major Vassall, in his high- 
pitched, melancholy voice. 

“ Miss Dampier is asleep in the van ; I’m afraid she is 
very ill,” continued Mark. The old man stood haggard 
284 


Love with Honour 


and silent, passing his hand over his face. He did not 
betray any wish to see Laura, but seemed rather as if he 
would first decide if she were worth seeing. He was not 
hardened, but come to that bitter sanity by which a man 
knows what may, what may not, be done. Cuthbert walked 
restlessly to and fro, while Mark faced them, untroubled 
about the past, only interested in the practical future. 

“ When did Miss Dampier come here ? ” asked the major, 
presently. 

“ About seven this morning,” answered Mark, chafing a 
little ; this catechism seemed so useless. I think you 
ought to see her at once,” he added. “ She was half deli- 
rious when she came. She said she had been frightened and 
that her mother was dead.” The relative importance of 
the two statements was unquestioned by him. 

‘‘ That is true,” said Major Vassall, uncovering, ‘‘ her 
mother is with God.” 

“ But what made Miss Dampier come here F ” put in 
Cuthbert, impetuously. Mark looked at him. A sort of 
compassion kept him from reminding Cuthbert how Laura 
had learned where he was. He turned to Major Vassall. 

“ Miss Dampier had heard that I was here. I don’t quite 
understand what it was that frightened her, but I believe 
that a man, who sang at the concert, did or said something 
that impressed her disagreeably.” He said this with an air 
of indignant surprise, as if he demanded why the encounter 
had been allowed. Major Vassall looked slowly from one 
to the other; he summed up the situation. Nobody spoke. 
Within the van Laura coughed and moaned. Mark opened 
the door, saying : — 

I don’t think Miss Dampier should be allowed to talk 
285 


Love with Honour 


much. Will you please ask her where she would like to 
be taken ? ” He then walked away, taking no notice of Cuth- 
bert. Arkell put his hands in his pockets, and looked 
thoughtfully at Mark’s back. He could not resist the 
irony of the situation. 

“ Surtees,” he called quietly. 

Mark turned round grandly. 

“ It appears to me,” said Cuthbert, ‘‘ that this is your 
entertainment ; would you rather I didn’t stay ? ” 

Mark showed a want of self-command. 

‘‘ I think you’d better stay, you know ; that is, if you 
don’t mind ? ” he said awkwardly. Cuthbert shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ I can’t say I’m enjoying myself,” he answered, “ but 
I’ll stay if you like.” 

“ I’d rather you did,” said Mark, with tremendous 
earnestness. 

Major Vassall bent over the girl, and laid his hand on 
her forehead ; he pursed up his lips with vexation. 

“ Surtees,” he called sharply. Mark entered on tip- 
toe. “Was Miss Dampier like this when she came ? ” 

“ She was very feverish.” 

“ Why didn’t you get her up to the village at once ? ” 
he asked testily. 

“ It was my fault,” gasped Laura. “ I didn’t want 
Mark to send for you ; I’m glad he did now ; I should 
have been a dreadful nuisance.” 

She was subdued now, and rather frightened, illness 
was so new a thing to her. 

“ I thought it better not to cause unnecessary gossip,” 
murmured Mark. Major Vassall looked at him with 
286 


Love with Honour 


almost admiration; he remembered that, on several occa- 
sions, he had given this young man advice. He went to 
the door of the van, and beckoned Cuthbert. 

“ Go to the trap,” he said, “ and send the boy away ; 
Surtees and I will carry her across.” 

Inside, Laura smiled faintly up at Mark. 

‘‘Pm so sorry,” she said; “I hope he won’t be angry 
with you.” 

Mark’s answer need not be recorded ; it implied that in 
their planet Major Vassall’s opinion of him was of no 
consequence. 

Would you like to go to Mrs. Winscombe ? ” he 
whispered eagerly. 

“ I won’t go anywhere else,” she answered. 

Major Vassall was informed of the arrangement. There 
was a little difficulty about the seats; Major Vassall got 
up first, and Mark helped Laura beside him. She was 
obviously unable to sit without support on either side. 
Mark and Cuthbert looked at each other. 

“ I’ll sit behind,” said Mark. 

“ How about your van, Surtees ? ” said Major Vassall, 
drily. Laura laughed. 

“ Oh, I’m staying,” said Cuthbert, cheerfully. “ I’ll 
look after the van ; there’s really no sense in my coming. 
You might tell my mother I’m here, Surtees, will you ? 
You can ride back on my machine, you know, and that 
will make it all right for me.” Laura looked at him grate- 
fully ; Cuthbert nodded, and walked away. 

“ Wait a minute,” said Mark to Major Vassall. He 
jumped out, and went after Cuthbert. 

“Arkell,” he called. Cuthbert turned round. 

287 


Love with Honour 


Look here,” said Mark, “ why on earth can't you 
come ? I can get a boy to look after the damned things.” 
‘‘ rd rather stay,” said Cuthbert. 

Mark held out his hand; Arkell hesitated a moment, 
and then took it. 

“ Oh, it’s all right, you know,” he said. 


288 


Chapter XXII 


C AIRNS stood up as the major entered; for the 
moment he paled, and, like a drowned face ris- 
ing out of shocked water, a forgotten self looked 
from his dull eyes and redeemed his coarsened 
mouth. He recovered himself immediately, and, bringing 
his heels together, bowed stiffly from the waist. Major 
Vassall stood in the doorway, his hand raised to the level of 
his shoulder, the brim of his hat resting against his chin. 
His calm eyes were troubled as he noticed the shameful 
resemblance to Laura in the man before him, though he 
looked on him as a thing apart from their lives. In the 
silence. Topping, his mouth and eyes wide open, got 
clumsily, as by compulsion, out of the chair where he had 
sprawled. The bearing of the other two, the dignity of 
the major, the blunted air of Cairns, the rude sketch of a 
gentleman as it were, made more evident the young man’s 
essential underbreeding. He had a flash of intuition, a 
sense of high quarrels, and, unable to bear the tension, 
yelped, after the manner of his kind, a password of the 
streets : — 

“ Oh, I thay ! ” 

“ Leave the room,” said Major Vassall, quietly. 

“ ’Arf a mo’, ’arf a mo’,” cooed Topping, derisively, 
“ this is my mansion, this is ; I’m not a proud chap, but 
that’s a bit off. I go when I please.” He sat down again, 
giggling nervously. 

“Topping, get out,” barked Cairns. 

Topping winced as at a blow. He looked at Cairns 
u 289 


Love with Honour 


with eyes that were for the moment pitiable ; he suggested 
the child beaten without knowing why. Major Vassall 
studied him curiously and not unkindly, as over his face 
there passed in swift succession, surprise, wounded affec- 
tion, and, when he understood, a look of abject misery. 
He walked slowly to the door, his lips quivering. 

“ Do you mean it ? ” he croaked, as if to give Cairns one 
chance to amend his cruelty. Whether ashamed because 
one of his own order was there, or touched with pity, 
Cairns spoke to him kindly. 

“I’m sorry. Topping, but you must leave us alone for a 
few minutes ; don’t go right away, wait in the cafe.” 

Topping left the room. 

“ He won’t listen,” said Cairns, with a short laugh ; then, 
after a pause, “ I am at your service.” 

Major Vassall looked round the frowsy room. His eyes 
rested without comment upon everything : the unmade bed, 
the filthy fireplace, the empty whiskey bottles, the indecent 
prints pinned against the wall. The air of the place 
afflicted him ; he was prepared for poverty by the neighbour- 
hood, but this was the poverty that stains. In spite of his 
errand he turned to Cairns with a glance that was almost 
appealing; he looked more ashamed than angry, as if he 
had caught a man at a disadvantage and would apologise. 
Cairns interpreted his glance. 

“ Yes,” he said weakly, “ I have sunk to this ; I am a 
drunkard, I don’t wash, I sponge upon that poor devil I 
have just kicked out of the room. He is the only creature 
on God’s earth who will associate with me without being 
paid for it; and I was once a gentleman and in the service. 
. . . Pretty, isn’t it ? Look at me ; you remember what 
290 


Love with Honour 

I was, don’t you ? Well, it is unnecessary to tell you in 
detail what I am now ; it is stinkingly apparent.” 

Either goaded by the steady silence of the other or 
excited by his own words, he continued passionately : — 

“ But there are limits even to my degradation ; there’s 
etiquette even in the gutter. I don’t know what you want, 
Vassall, or why you came here, unless it was to gloat over 
my condition ; but I’ll have you know that I am still my 
father’s son, and, by God, I can meet you like a man. 
Out with it ; sit down, tell me your business and go. 
Don’t think you can hurt me by showing me what a clean 
man is ; I’m past that now — and it’s cheaper without the 
convention.” 

Major Vassall sat down, formally, as by the letter of 
courteous usage. He spoke meditatively : — 

“Twenty-two years ago I made a vow; I swore that 
when I saw you again I would kill you as an act of justice ; 
if I killed you now, I think it would be an act of mercy.” 

Cairns laughed loudly. 

“ Not a bit of it,” he cried ; “ that’s where you decent 
people are so mistaken ; you don’t reckon the cost of your 
decency. You think that when a man drops out he is 
forever hankering after what he has lost. That is one 
phase, I grant you ; but one goes quickly through that with 
one’s eyes shut. Lord, man, the dunghill grows on you ; 
it’s warm and the code is easy. I have gone through hell 
and come out smiling. I’m in clover ; it is a fat year with 
me, Vassall; I have whiskey, I have money: and when you 
have gone through what I have suffered you won’t bother 
your head about such a trifle as honour. I swear to you 
before God that if I could step from this kennel into the 

291 


Love with Honour 


old mess I would go without any shame. I’d stand up in 
my filth and degradation and tell them that I am better 
off than they. They grind and pinch : what for ? Food, 
drink, amusement, women — and a convention. Damned 
fools ! It is I who live ; what have they that I have not ? 
Food, drink, admiration, women — I can get them all except 
the convention, the empty formula.” 

Major Vassall stopped him with a gesture. 

“Your life is your own business,” he said, “but you 
shall not spit upon the service in my presence.” 

“ Don’t threaten me, Vassall,” said the other, coolly ; 
“you misunderstand the situation. You are here on suffer- 
ance; I didn’t ask you to come; I have only to send 
Topping for a policeman and out you go.” He laughed. 
“Odd, isn’t it, that such as I can still claim the law; whilst 
you at this moment are in the position of a burglar ? Think 
it over ; it is a useful commentary on the importance of con- 
ventions. I repeat, I can have you removed, or, if you 
choose to be civil and tell me your business, I can give 
you whatever satisfaction you want. I will meet you any- 
where at any time; the advantage will be entirely yours, — 
I couldn’t hit a haystack, — but, by God, I’ll meet you.” 

Major Vassall placed his hat upon the floor, folded his 
arms, and crossed his legs. 

“ What is your price ? ” he said, his voice sounding un- 
speakably thin and dry after the other’s heroics, “ for the 
letters written to you by the wife of Captain Dampier ? ” 

He intended to surprise his man, but Cairns’s reception 
of the question discomposed himself. 

“ Not another word,” said Cairns, gravely. “ It is a pity 
that I should have to remind you that you insult yourself, 

292 


Love with Honour 


not me. As Guy Danvers you can toss me a shilling and 
I assure you I’ll pick it up ; but when you refer to matters 
that concern me as Cairns, you’ll kindly remember the 
decencies.” 

In spite of the theatricality of the words, Vassall was 
impressed. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said. 

They looked at each other in silence. The major was 
severely practical j he wished to avoid discussion, though 
determined to gain his purpose. He recognised that he 
had made a false attack ; he considered a better move. 

“ Is that the reason for your visit ? ” asked Cairns, 
presently. 

“ It is the reason for my remaining,” purred the major. 

“ Then, Vassall,” said Cairns, gently, “ you can stay and 
be damned.” 

‘‘You forget yourself.” 

Cairns laughed ; he spread out his hands with a mocking 
gesture. 

“ The Silver Tenor, the toast of office boys, forgets him- 
self!” he said; then, with a return to seriousness: “No, 
Vassall. You ask what is impossible. I can hardly blame 
you; you had every reason to suppose I was — like that. 
It is rather a nuisance, than otherwise ; it spoils my complete 
enjoyment of the dunghill. Will you have the grace to 
remember that I offered you the letters — that day? You 
would not have them then ; you shall not have them now. 
Understand me ; there is one part of me that will not sub- 
mit to the dunghill, the part of me that clings round a little 
bundle of letters, written by the woman I loved. I keep them 
safe while I live ; they will lie on my heart when I die.” 

293 


Love with Honour 

“That is well,” said Major Vassall, gravely j “will you 
trust me to lay them on hers ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Cairns, eyeing him 
narrowly. 

“ Margaret sent me for the letters.” 

“ She is dying ? ” cried Cairns. 

“She is dead,” answered the major, turning away his 
head. Cairns covered his face with his hands. 

“ This is not a trick ? ” he said presently. Major Vassall 
did not answer. “ No, no,” muttered Cairns, “ I had 
forgotten; you could not do that. Why didn’t you send 
for me ? ” he cried bitterly ; “ what right had you to keep 
me away, when it had come to that ? You have robbed 
me always ; you stole her away from me living, and hid her 
until I had so fouled myself that she could not have me ; 
you kept me from her when she died. She wanted me. 
I’ll swear ; she asked for me, and you stood by with your 
cursed coldness and let her die alone.” 

Major Vassall got up and looked out of the dirty window 
into the street. He desired to be tolerant, and would not 
witness the other man’s exposure of an emotion that af- 
fected him, but not to sympathy. He was hampered by the 
decencies, and overconscious of the other’s womanish trade. 

“ When did she die ? ” asked Cairns. 

“ Two days ago.” 

“ Let me go to her,” said Cairns, brokenly ; “ for Christ’s 
sake, give me that last privilege; afterwards I will shoot 
myself, — with the same pistol, — I swear I will. Vassall, 
be human; you had a heart once, you loved her too; I 
knew, though Dampier never suspected. I had the ad- 
vantage of you then ; it is your turn now. I swear to you, 
294 


Love with Honour 

that I always meant to put things right ; I kept straight for 
years, I searched for her everywhere j I did all that a man 
could do. When at last' I found where you hid her, it was 
too late ; I could not go to her then.” 

“ I cannot take you to her now.” 

Why not ? I cannot shame her, dead ; if she knows 
me it will be as I was, not as I am. She will never know 
how low I have sunk. I will go to her and return to her 
heart the witness of what was between us. She loved me, 
Vassall, she loved me. Don’t judge her too hardly.” 

“ I judge no one, least of all the dead,” said Major 
Vassall, turning round j ‘‘ but, please God, I will spare the 
living.” 

What do you mean ? ” 

Major Vassall looked at him scornfully. 

“ Have you so easily forgotten why Dampier called you 
out ? I did not know at the time, or be sure one of us 
two had not left that place alive.” 

“ Some devil had betrayed us.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ I had no proof, or I would have seen to it that a 
mouth was stopped.” 

Nobody betrayed you ; your sin found you out.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ Then you did not know that Margaret had a child ? ” 

Cairns did not answer for a few minutes ; he stared at 
Major Vassall with protruding eyeballs, and a foolish, vacant 
mouth. 

“ Child ? ” he echoed. 

‘‘ Liar, you knew,” said Major Vassall, bitterly. He had 
begun to feel a contemptuous pity for this man, obviously 

295 


Love with Honour 


incapable of a manly bearing, but the hint of deception 
hardened him. I do not see the purpose of this evasion,” 
he said stiffly. I need only remind you [that you are not 
dealing with a woman now.” 

“I don’t care what you think, Vassallj I am telling you 
this to make it right with myself. I have nothing to gain 
by lying. What you have told me explains many things. 
Until now I did not know why she married Dampier; I 
thought her wanton, and cursed her. I did not understand 
the incoherent letters she wrote me, after her marriage. I 
could not imagine how Dampier found out. ... It is all 
clear now; you have lit up hell for me. When it is too late, 
you show me how things might have been, all so different. 
If this is a scheme of revenge, I congratulate you on your 
subtlety.” He broke out suddenly : “ She suffered all this 
alone; I could have saved her, but for you. You might 
have spared her, Vassall, even though you hated me. I do 
not envy you, I am clean beside you. Dampier’s blood is 
on your head, not mine. There is just one other thing I 
want to know : where has she lived — she and the child — 
all these years ; who has cared for them .? ” 

“ I have cared for them.” 

‘‘ For what devilish purpose? I have a right to know, 
and you shall answer me. Is the child alive ? ” 

“ She was alive this morning.” 

‘‘ Is she like Margaret ? ” 

Major Vassall did not answer; he was trying to decide 
whether it was better to tell Cairns the truth — that his 
protection of Mrs. Dampier and her child was due to his 
misunderstanding the cause of the duel in which her 
husband fell, or to let him believe what he listed. 

296 


Love with Honour 


“ They have been well cared for,” he said, simply. 

“ I know the kindness of good men,” cried Cairns, bit- 
terly. ‘‘ But, answer me, what was your purpose in hiding 
them away ? ” 

Major Vassall, seeing no alternative, briefly told him 
how he had been duped. He made light of his own self- 
sacrifice, saying, that in his friend’s last words he had mis- 
taken an explanation for a trust. 

“ It was for his sake,” he said coldly. ‘‘ I have only 
now learned the truth.” With the words he realised how 
little difference the truth made to his worship of Laura. 

‘‘You will allow me to see the girl,” pleaded Cairns. 

“ I think not.” 

“ I swear she shall never know. Don’t be selfish, Vas- 
sall ; you have had all the good fortune. Just think of it, 
you have lived near her for twenty years, you have watched 
the girl grow up.” He walked, agitatedly, up and down 
the room. “ It is I who know what that means ; do you 
think I could have come to this, if I had had the child to 
keep me straight ? It is not too late, now. I’ll pull myself 
together. I’ll drop the drink. I’ll live clean. Do you think 
I care for this, do you think I am a swine ? Let me see 
her, let me touch her hand. She need never know who 
I am, you may trust me. I can keep her in coWort. If I 
choose, I can earn a decent living. It is only because I 
don’t care, that I drink; I can give it up to-morrow — this 
moment.” He caught up a half-filled bottle of whiskey, 
and hurled it into the fireplace. Major Vassall kept his 
head. 

“ It is too late,” he said ; “ you must bear the burden of 
your sin alone, she who sinned with you is at peace. That 

297 


Love with Honour 


should comfort youj if you cannot live straight by her 
memory, nothing can save you.” 

“What is her memory to her child? You are a fool, 
Vassall ; you know your theories, but you don’t know 
human nature. There is too much of the beast in me to 
be saved by a memory. I have tried, and I know. It 
means hours of deadly remorse, an awful struggle, and then 
a relapse, worse than before. . . . But a living child, my 
own blood ! Vassall, you have no right to keep her from me ; 
you are selfish, you have had her all these years ; let me go 
to her now.” He stopped in sheer exhaustion, and his 
hand went out mechanically to a tumbler ; he dashed it on 
the floor, cursing weakly. 

Major Vassall was perplexed. He had been so shaken 
by the succession of events that he distrusted his machin- 
ery of life. He began to suspect that it was artificial, and 
in his determination to be merely human, he was for a 
moment tempted to allow a meeting, or at least to give 
Cairns the consolation of knowing that he had indeed seen 
his daughter. Fortunately it came into his mind that 
Cairns was sure to hear of Laura’s inheritance, and he 
shrank before the possibilities of that knowledge. 

“ I absolutely decline to give you any information that will 
enable you to find Miss Dampier — you will understand 
that I prefer to think of her by that name, ” he said ; “ I 
shall use every means in my power to prevent an accidental 
meeting. It may seem hard to you, but it is the only 
rational thing to do.” 

Cairns knew his man and understood the uselessness of 
any further appeal. 

“ There is one thing I want to know,” he said at 
298 


Love with Honour 


length. ‘‘How did you — after these years — find out 
the truth ? ” 

Major Vassall was cautious ; he knew that he could only 
recover the letters by stratagem, and that a flat accusation 
of attempted blackmail would defeat his purpose. His 
belief in Cairns’s guilt of the last infamy was shaken by 
their encounter, but he was sufficiently a man of the world 
to act with discretion. He merely stated that Mrs. 
Dampier had received and answered a threatening letter, 
had in her terror confided in him, and that her sudden death 
had left the matter in his hands. 

Cairns heard him out with deepening anxiety; at the 
end he said : — 

“ This is more serious than you seem to think ; unless 
the letter was a shot in the dark there is some one else who 
knows.” 

Major Vassall regarded him closely ; he had an exagger- 
ated opinion of the art of the stage. 

“ If I am wronging you,” he said sternly, “ I beg for- 
giveness beforehand. I was under the impression that 
you yourself wrote the letter.” 

Cairns flushed. 

“ Did she think that ? ” he groaned. 

“ No ; she believed you were dead,” answered Major 
Vassall. In spite of his desire to be coldly just, he could 
not conceal his regret that Mrs. Dampier’s belief was un- 
founded. There was a momentary light in Cairns’s eyes ; 
the effort with which both men suppressed their personalities 
was perceptible. Cairns betrayed his weaker nature by 
saying ; — 

“ Then who could have written ? ” 

299 


Love with Honour 


Major Vassall produced a letter from his pocket-book. 
‘‘ I took the precaution to search for this, lest it should 
fall into other hands,” he said, hesitating before giving the 
paper to Cairns. The man turned livid and cursed foully. 

“Topping ! ” he cried, “ Topping wrote that.” He let 
fall the paper, and dropped into a chair. Major Vassall 
stooped, picked up the letter, folded it carefully, and replaced 
it in his pocket-book before he spoke. 

“ Do you mean to tell me,” he said gravely, “ that you 
were base enough to tell another man of her shame ? ” 

Cairns included the major. Topping, and himself in a 
stammer of oaths. “ Another word and I’ll spit in your 
face,” he cried. Major Vassall watched him, unmoved. 
Cairns dragged a tattered portmanteau from under the bed, 
and, with shaking hands, unfastened the straps ; he threw 
out the contents on the floor, and with a snarl of triumph 
held up the sealed packet. In his access of relief he 
laughed aloud. 

“ The devil hasn’t read them,” he cried. He placed the 
packet on the table, still keeping one hand upon it, as 
though fearful the other would snatch it away. 

“Burn them at once, ’’said Major Vassall, agitatedly ; 
“burn them.” 

Cairns looked sharply at him and made as if to give him 
the letters. The major bowed, and, placing his hands 
behind his back, turned somewhat ostentatiously to the 
window. A quick cry from Cairns made him look round. 
The table was strewn with a litter of papers, some of them 
entirely blank. 

“ God knows,” said Cairns, weakly, “ for how long I have 
put these, every night, under my pillow.” 

300 


Love with Honour 


Major Vassall moved impatiently. 

The important thing,” he said, “ is to find out vi^hat 
has become of the real letters. Send for Topping at once 
and leave him to me j I see a way to deal with him. ” 

Cairns went to the head of the staircase and called. 

“ Right O ! ” answered the youth, cheerfully. He 
entered the room with a mincing air of deference, though 
he held a cigarette between his lips. Major Vassall went 
quietly to the door, closed it, and stood with folded arms. 
Topping looked from one to the other. 

‘‘ Perhaps,” he began sarcastically, if you two gentle- 
men have quite finished your business, you’ll allow — ” His 
eyes fell on the table, and he stopped short. Taken too 
suddenly for fear, he licked his lips foolishly. 

‘‘Mr. Topping,” said Major Vassall, “I accuse you of 
the theft of certain papers, the property of Mrs. Dampier, 
and further with attempting to extort money from the same 
lady by means of a threatening letter.” 

Topping laughed uneasily. 

“ Hold on,” he said, a little short of breath but still 
defiant, “ where are your proofs ? ” 

“ Don’t be a damned fool. Topping,” said Cairns, 
impulsively. Topping turned from him with immense 
disregard. 

“ Unless you hand over the stolen papers, at once, I 
shall give you in charge of the police,” pursued the major, 
sweetly. 

“ Look here. Topping,” said Cairns, apologetically, “ I 
want those papers badly j it will be a serious matter for 
me if I can’t produce them, do you understand ? ” 

“Oh, very well,” said Topping, with a gesture of 
301 


Love with Honour 


hopelessness, ‘‘ l^you ask me for them, that’s another matter. 
I try to pull off a big thing, and you round on me ; you get 
a fit of the blues, and the first man as comes along bluffs the 
papers out of you. I gave you credit for more pluck.” 

Cairns turned to Major Vassall. 

“ Will you give me your w^ord of honour that on condi- 
tion of his handing over these papers you will abstain from 
prosecuting ? ” 

“ I give you my word of honour,” he said ; “ I also suggest 
that the papers are burned in Mr. Topping’s presence.” 
Topping, with the air of a conspirator, pulled up a loose 
board and produced the packet. Cairns examined the seals 
minutely. 

“You haven’t read them ? ” he asked. 

“There are things a gentleman don’t do,” said Topping, 
grandly. He pulled a letter from his pocket. “ If you’d 
like to know what a big thing you’ve muffed,” he said 
triumphantly, “just read this.” 

Cairns read the letter and handed it to Major Vassall ; 
it was in Mrs. Dampier’s handwriting : — 

“ Bring me the letters and I will buy them from you.” 

“ Ah, yes,” said Major Vassall, pocketing the letter, “ I 
see that my client was willing to pay. Meanwhile I will 
only ask you how you obtained her address.” 

Topping looked at Cairns with a snigger. Cairns re- 
counted the circumstances of Cuthbert Arkell’s visit. 

“ He appeared to have some grudge against an acquaint- 
ance of ours, a man named Surtees j he suspected some black- 
guardism in the man’s past and thought we should be able 
to give him information. So far as I know Surtees is an 
amusingly serious young prig, but the encounter interested 
302 


Love with Honour 

me and I got Arkell to talk. Incidentally he mentioned 
the name and residence of your client. I have already told 
you of the value I attached to these papers. So long as I 
lived and was well, I had no fear for their safety ; but one 
has to consider the unexpected. I had the utmost confi- 
dence in Topping’s discretion ; I told him that in the event 
of my death he was to hand over the papers, unread, to 
your client, whose name I had written on the outside 
wrapper. As you know, he thought fit to anticipate his 
commission.” 

He spoke glibly, with dry lips, not daring to take his 
eyes from the other’s face. Major Vassall felt that he had 
not misjudged him. 

“ Very well,” he said, “ I think that further discussion 
is unnecessary. With your permission, we will at once 
destroy these documents, which are of no further impor- 
tance to anyone. ” 

When the burning was over. Major Vassall breathed 
more freely. He became once again stern and abrupt. 
Rising from his chair, he turned to Cairns : — 

“You will leave England in three weeks for one of the 
colonies.” 

Topping was about to protest, but Cairns silenced him. 

“You will not consider the alternative I spoke of?” 
he asked huskily. 

“ No. Here is my card ; when you have arrived at 
your decision you can let me know. I will forward you a 
sum of money to pay your passage. On hearing from you 
when you land I will send you a further sum of one 
hundred pounds. Nothing more. I will now leave you to 
discuss the matter between yourselves* Good morning.” 

303 


Chapter XXIII 


M ark was thankful for the major’s presence 
when they gave Laura into Mrs. Wins- 
combe’s hands. The good woman took in 
the situation at a glance, and, though in her 
attentions to Laura she could do no more than look at him, 
he shied before her overburdened eyes. Major Vassall 
found a dry relief in defining things. 

“ Miss Dampier has pneumonia,” he said, and Mark 
read dismissal in the words. He was not anxious to stay, 
having a fastidious holding off for the absolute Laura her 
condition cheated him of. He neither doubted she was 
ultimately his, nor that she would recover, and he knew 
that Mrs. Winscombe would give him daily news. He 
returned to his own place, haunted by Laura’s desperate 
smile over the major’s shoulder, and immediately fell to 
considering his practical future. The miracle proved, he 
brooked no difficulties ; being loved, it was so easy to live. 
He hung about Newbury until he heard from Mrs. 
Winscombe, in a fever of joy, that Laura was better, and, 
in her sorrow for her mother’s death — now realised and 
the more bitter for keeping — could yet think of him of 
all the world beside. Then, housing his van, he wrote to 
Hermann Fischer that he would be glad of a meeting, to 
discuss business. For the first time he felt that perhaps 
he had not been receiving his due, and prepared to meet 
Hermann with a front of brass. Only when seated in the 
express for Paddington did he begin to see patches of 
ground between the interstices of his flying carpet. His 

304 


Love with Honour 


fellow-passengers were grubby men, who displayed in their 
looks and conversation the difficulty of making both ends 
meet. At how much could the world be counted on to 
value him whose strongest claim appeared, on reflection, to 
be that he was a lover ? 

If it is possible to describe any part of London as pro- 
vincial, the term can justly be used of Slade Street. 
Turning sharply out of a pulsing artery, one enters a grey 
stretch whose mediocrity is only increased by its width. 
One’s footsteps unconsciously slacken to the pace of 
loitering carts, to the desultory air of women who, even at 
midday, here clean doorsteps and exchange forebodings — 
confidences were too active a word. At uncertain periods 
unprosperous looking men let themselves out of houses and 
waver on the pavement, as if hours were not for them. 
Here and there a blind stretch of dirty window gives a clue 
to their ostensible occupation, for, as Hermann observed, ‘‘it 
is a large street for painters.” Lest the reader be misled, 
it should be stated that few men who rent studios in Slade 
Street are known to the frequenters of galleries. They are 
chiefly engaged in the hundred and one branches of paint- 
ing distinguished by a very prominent adjectival “Art,” 
workers in crystoleum, art photographers, art decorators, 
and the like ; men who do those marvellous crayon 
portraits on receipt of a cabinet photograph and a postal 
order for seven and sixpence. 

Mark tried to shut out everything but the numbers on 
the doors, and so by disconcerting degrees came to Her- 
mann’s shop. A preconceived notion of Hermann’s deco- 
rative taste made him expect to be shocked ; he braced his 
nerves against purple plush, and was surprised rather than 

305 


X 


Love with Honour 


relieved by a quiet arrangement of grey curtains, only 
brightened by the simple gold frames of the pictures on 
show in the window. The whole shop front gave the 
impression of quiet prosperity; yet the name on the sill 
and on the shieldlike sign, standing out at right angles to 
the door, was that of Hermann Fischer. Mark was reluc- 
tant to go inside until he had adjusted himself to the effect 
of the exterior. He examined the pictures in the window. 
There were no portraits ; one or two copies of paintings 
in red and sepia carbon; a landscape of his own, “Scotch 
Firs” ; and, well to the front, an oblong folio volume bound 
with subdued richness in olive green and gold, and bearing 
the title, “ Rural England Series,” Volume I. Glancing 
again at the fir tree picture, Mark saw that it was printed 
in photogravure, and labelled, “ Specimen Plate from ‘ Rural 
England.’ ” He turned the bright brass handle of the door, 
half-curtained in grey plush, and went inside. When his 
eyes became accustomed to the dark interior, he made out 
the figures of two men in conversation. One, who had 
his back turned to him, was elderly, wearing his hair 
rather long, and Mark noticed his singularly broad shoul- 
ders. The other, young and slight, looking up, studied 
Mark with curiosity. He came forward. 

“ If I am not mistaken,” he said deferentially, “ you 
are Mr. Mark Surtees.” Mark nodded. 

“ Can I see Mr. Fischer ? ” he asked. 

“ He is out at this moment,” said the young man ; “ but I 
am expecting him back in half an hour. He told me you 
were coming this afternoon, and — but will you make your- 
self comfortable in the studio until Mr. Fischer returns ? ” 
He held aside the curtains at the back of the shop, and 
306 


Love with Honour 


Mark was about to pass through, when the other man, who had 
been looking at him out of a single eyeglass, came forward. 

“ Must introduce myself, Mr. Surtees,” he said brusquely. 
“ Fm Watters, of Watters and Pike, you know.” He 
laughed good-humouredly. ‘‘Owe you a grudge. Fve 
grown old reviling the camera and all its works, and now 
you come along and write me down an ass. What on 
earth kept you from trying the usual fakes ? Was it art- 
fulness or only genius ? See you again,” he nodded to the 
assistant. “ Tell Fischer I may be a bit late this evening, 
but Fll come as soon as I can get away.” 

The young man seemed embarrassed with Mark on his 
hands. He led him into a large and well-furnished studio, 
hurrying away with a nervous apology. 

« I — will you excuse me Mr. Fischer will be in 
directly — he is very anxious to see you.” He ended the 
sentence with a smile, quickly suppressed. 

It was at once evident to the professional eye that Her- 
mann Fischer did very little portrait work. One side of 
the studio was occupied by a gigantic camera sliding on 
rails, facing an arrangement of shaded mirrors, at this 
moment reflecting a study of a girl’s head in monochrome 
oils. The floor was littered with waste carbon and plati- 
num prints; the size of the developing dishes propped 
against the wall suggested a large scale of work. Mark 
roamed about the place, examining unfamiliar apparatus. 
The quiet of the studio, light and sound subdued, the air 
of mystery in the assistant’s manner, the remarks of Mr. 
Watters, puzzled him ; he seemed to have intruded where 
he was already well known. He presently heard the shop 
door open, and Hermann’s voice. 

307 


Love with Honour 


“Good, good,’’ he cried, coming through the curtains 
with both hands extended, “ you’ve caught me napping ; I 
didn’t expect you for an hour.” He held Mark’s hands, 
smiling delightedly. “Well, now, sit down and tell me 
what you think of my little place.” 

Hermann in a frock coat and silk hat was a surprising 
figure. Mark gazed at him with amusement, saying : — 

“You’re such a howling swell, Hermann, I don’t know 
what to think. How have you managed it all ? ” 

“Aha,” chuckled the other, putting his finger to the side 
of his nose, “ this comes of staying at home and minding 
the shop.” He sat down and rubbed his fat thighs in 
sheer delight. 

“ No, no, my dear boy,” he said ; “ you do injustice to 
all that commercial ability, combined with sound taste and 
untiring industry, for which Hermann Fischer is noted. 
When I took over the concern it was a freeze — pooh, 
nothing ! I have built it up all out of my own head.” 
He folded his arms, and tried to look the picture of the 
qualities he claimed. 

“ I congratulate you, old man,” said Mark. He was 
not envious, indeed, one-half of him frankly despised these 
evidences of solid prosperity ; yet he could not help remem- 
bering the advantages of a banking account. The con- 
viction that Hermann had arrived, made him the more 
unwilling to speak of his own affairs. Hermann took a 
childlike joy in Mark’s mystification. 

“You don’t seem to tumble yet,” he said, and, with os- 
tentatious airiness, took up a facsimile of the volume Mark 
had seen in the window. 

“ Do you mind amusing yourself with this little book 
308 


Love with Honour 


while I go into the shop ? ” he asked ; ‘‘ I have one or two 
things to talk over with my assistant.” His attempt to 
pronounce the two last words with a proper humility was 
very funny. He bolted nervously through the curtained 
doorway, and Mark heard him explode into laughter. 

Mark turned over the leaves of the book with surprise 
that quickly became indignation. There were twenty-four 
plates, exquisite reproductions of the pictures he himself 
had taken in Severnshire. Each plate had a simple title, 
“ Sheep-washing,” “ The Rick Barton,” and so on. On 
the opposite page, set in a wide margin, was a little 
“ note ” he presently recognised as extracted from his 
letters to Hermann. He looked in vain for any acknow- 
ledgement on the cover or title-page. The book was from 
the house of Watters and Pike, the well-known publishers 
of ‘‘ Art ” books ; price, one guinea. 

“ The negatives were his own property, of course,” 
growled Mark to himself, “ but he might have asked my 
permission about the notes.” 

Hermann returned, eyeing him a little anxiously. 

‘‘ Watters and Pike have done them very well ? ” he said. 

“ Best reproductions Tve seen for a long time,” answered 
Mark, shortly ; then, ashamed of himself, he added, It 
was a brilliant idea of yours, Hermann ; is there any sale ? ” 

“ First edition of two thousand sold in a week.” 

Mark opened his eyes. “ By the way,” he said, “ did 
you sell the negatives outright, or do you retain a royalty ? ” 

“ One retains a royalty,” replied Hermann, ambiguously. 

How do you mean ? ” Hermann shut his eyes and roared 
with laughter. 

“ My dear Mark,” he said, wringing his hand, “ do you 

309 


Love with Honour 


think I am altogether a pig? Listen/' he tapped the book; 
“this is your property. I wanted to keep it dark for a 
bit, but your announcement that you were coming to town 
forced my hand. I’m Herr Editor, that’s all ; of course, I 
get a percentage, oh, yes. Look here,” he cried, springing 
up, “ come to my room and have drinks ; there are a crowd 
of details to talk about.” 

When they were seated, with whiskey and cigarettes, 
Hermann began : — 

“ I’m not an oversanguine person, as you know, but, 
unless I am mistaken, the thing is going to pay hand over 
fist ; it has caught on like beeswax. Without exaggera- 
tion, I believe Watters and Pike are willing to give us a 
commission to do the whole country in the same series. 
All they stipulate is that the negatives shall not be used for 
any other purpose. The two dozen they have used I se- 
lected out of what you sent me ; I had already done very 
good business with single prints, and it was this that put 
the idea into my head. People don’t care to frame photo- 
graphs for their walls, but they are glad enough to have a 
book for the drawing-room table. I talked it over with 
Watters and Pike, and they agreed to stand the expense of 
canvassing and printing a prospectus with reduced specimen 
plates. They had a thousand subscribed for in a very 
short time and went ahead. It’s the price, you see ; we get 
the public that won’t have the ordinary book of ‘ views ’ 
because everybody has them.” He took up the book and 
turned over the leaves rapidly. “ You see the idea : good 
thick paper, rough surface, rich binding. The difficulty is 
to decide on the exact line we are to follow. Watters 
proposes to divide England into four sections and make — 
310 


Love with Honour 


say one hundred — characteristic pictures of each, one sec- 
tion to be published every year. He’s full of new ideas : 
‘The Four Seasons’ in characteristic binding; ‘Rivers,’ 
‘ Coast,’ ‘ Country Houses,’ ‘ Churches.’ Oh, there’s any 
amount of stuff.” He walked up and down the room, 
rubbing his hands. 

“ After all,” said Mark, “ it’s your idea, you know.” 

“ Not a bit ; it was you who suggested the style of land- 
scape. Don’t you remember what you said about ‘views ’ 
and ‘ composition pictures ’ ? It’s all yours. Read some 
of the press notices.” He took up a handful of newspaper 
cuttings. 

“ At last,” said The Palette, “We confess that when 
we took up ‘ Rural England’ we groaned within us. We 
had long ago arrived at the conclusion that the camera was 
incapable of producing anything between the hard, bitty 
‘ view,’ and the chaotic smudge of the ‘ photographic im- 
pression.’ On opening the book we were agreeably sur- 
prised. The name of the artist is not given, but our 
thanks are due to the man who, avoiding the curse of ‘ar- 
tistic ’ photography, is content to recognise the limitations 
of his medium. These pictures are frankly photographs, 
and make no pretence to rival more imaginative methods ; 
yet as a transcript of nature, they show a feeling for tone, 
an instinct for the right point of view, that our landscape 
painters might well imitate. Without being unduly topo- 
graphical, they present the characteristic features of the 
district in which they were taken, and while entirely satis- 
factory as pictures, are of the highest value as a record of 
contemporary country life. In twenty years’ time they 
will be yet more valuable. The nameless artist has given 

311 


Love with Honour 


with each picture a charming ‘ note.’ Here he avoids con- 
fusion by refraining from word painting ; he suggests what 
the camera leaves untold, the sound, the smell, the human 
associations of the scene. We congratulate Messrs. Wat- 
ters and Pike on an entirely new departure. We have 
only one piece of advice to give them, — that they will do 
wisely to allow their artist full discretion; he is to be 
trusted. ‘ Rural England ’ demonstrates the fact that whether 
photography is an artistic blessing or curse depends entirely 
on the man behind the camera.” 

Hermann glared at Mark in an ecstasy. 

“ The Palette^^ he said, the serious art paper. You 
don’t seem to realise what a standing it gives you. You 
are a celebrity already ; if you like, you can be the fashion. 
Watters says that you have only to have it given out that 
you are taking up portrait work, and all the duchesses will 
come to you to be taken. That’s what I want to discuss 
with you ; will you come to town ? ” 

Mark made a wry face. 

‘‘ What have I to do with duchesses ? ” 

“Who have a princess.” Hermann completed the sen- 
tence, looking at Mark anxiously. He wanted to hear all 
about Mark’s love affair, but did not like to ask questions. 
Mark had a sudden paroxysm of shame, remembering his 
earlier letters. 

“ What a colossal prig I was, Hermann,” he said, look- 
ing the other way. 

Hermann laughed. “ It’s a common phase of evolu- 
tion,” he said. 

“ But I called her snobbish.” 

“ Naturally enough,” said Hermann, philosophically, 
312 


Love with Honour 


blowing out a cloud of smoke. “She had a standard for 
you, and you have risen to it unconsciously ; therefore it 
now appears ridiculous that once you thought her snobbish. 
That is the use of women in the cosmos j it is a common- 
place. You will find analogies all through nature ; the big 
organic events are brought off, not by instant attraction, 
but by some provocation — ” 

“ Rot,” interrupted Mark ; “ wait till you’re in love.” 
Hermann shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I should not lose my power of analysis if I were,” he 
said. “ However, do not talk about me.” 

It occurred to Mark that he had never given Hermann 
any information about Laura beyond his critical allusions 
to her in his letters. He was puzzled. 

“ I say, Hermann,” he said, “who told you ? ” 

Hermann scratched his head. 

“ Oh, I suppose I dreamt it.” 

“ No, but seriously, I want to know.” 

“ Well,” answered Hermann, “ I learned a great deal 
from ‘ Rural England.’ The first negatives you sent me 
were incoherent ; by and by they began to talk ; it was 
like looking at a target after men have been shooting — 
badly. You see a rough circle of bullet-marks, and if there 
were no bull’s-eye painted you could form a pretty accurate 
guess where it ought to be. Of course your letters helped 
me. . . .” He laughed. “ I used to put your prints to- 
gether — so — and speculate. Then I got a large scale 
map of your district, and whenever you named a place, I 
checked it ofF and made a little table. It was a very good 
game ; better than chess. . . . There is one thing I want 
to say j Miss Dampier has taught you your trade.” 

313 


Love with Honour 


‘‘ Fd like that explained,” objected Mark j “ that’s the 
worst of you theorists ; you plank down an assertion and 
pretend there’s a whole philosophy in it. It’s the cheapest 
way to get a reputation for wisdom.” 

“As you please,” said Hermann, placidly. “Since you are 
pleased to be offensive. I’ll tell you a few things you don’t 
know. If I had said them a year ago, you would have 
punched my head, because you were not ready. You set 
out full of your own conceit, and I let you go because I 
wanted you to learn. Let me see,” he reflected ; “ what 
were you going to do ? You were going to get close to 
the ground, to learn from nature at first hand. You were 
going to feel cold and hunger, and find a Heaven-sent 
gospel in an empty stomach. Oh, it was fine ! For a 
month I laughed ; I watched you getting sick for want of 
something to do. You got desperate, and bullied the little 
wayside weeds to tell you the grand secret ; you stared your- 
self blind looking at sunsets to find the grand secret. Let 
me tell you that you might have gone on bullying and staring 
for a hundred years, and you would have learned nothing. 
Because ? Because, my friend, it is only the very big men 
who can take nature by the throat and say, ‘ stand and de- 
liver.’ Tell me — were you happy, tramp, tramping along 
the roads, thinking of nothing ? ” 

Mark was half inclined to assert that he was happy, but 
his present comprehension of the word forced him to be 
honest. 

“ No,” he said, “ I was beastly miserable.” 

Hermann nodded. 

“ You were like a little baby crying for the moon. If 
you watch a little baby, you will see it crying, until some- 

314 


Love with Honour 


thing — a little bit of shining stone or glass — catches its 
attention. You began to be interested in something — in 
somebody. And when somebody was not there the other 
things became interesting, because of their associations. It 
is a commonplace that babies learn by association. Next, 
you were glad of an excuse for hanging about in the 
neighbourhood of somebody, so you agreed to take photo- 
graphs for me for a pis aller. In a very little while it grew 
on you like a game — to take photographs well. That was 
because you have some talent for seeing pictures. The 
little men, even the big, little men — and you are a big, little 
man, Mark — have to find out their metier by playing with 
the tools. Now it is become a pleasure to you to play with 
the tools, behold ! it is like the old woman with the pig that 
would not go over the stile \ the moon begins to talk, the 
sunset to explain itself, and the little wayside weeds to de- 
liver up their secrets. It was an apprenticeship, and your 
master was Love. Mark,” he said earnestly, “ you ought to 
go down on your knees to that young lady and thank her 
for opening your eyes.” 

“ I believe you are right, Hermann ; you are a wonderful 
chap.” 

“ It is as simple as that,” said Hermann, snapping his 
fingers. But we won’t philosophise any more; I want to 
talk business. First, do you wish to stay in the country or 
will you come to town ? ” 

Fd rather stay in the country.” 

“ Very good ; now there is the question of the division 
of profits. You must understand, my dear Mark, that you 
have a share in this business ; I have got it all down in the 
books. I want you to decide whether you will have your 

315 


Love with Honour 


percentage on the work all round, or take over the landscape 
department for your own, and pocket what we make on 
that.” 

‘‘ Can you give me an idea what it runs to ? ” 

Hermann considered. 

Your percentage on the sale of ‘ Rural England ’ amounts 
to about £160 with the arrears I owe you for the fore- 
ground and foliage studies, you have altogether about £2^0 
in hand. I cannot say how it will go on, but I think you 
can make sure of £^^0 a year.” 

“ But how about your share ? ” 

I am a man of business and a Jew,” said Hermann. 
“ It is arranged, then, that you continue your travels, while I 
stay at home and mind the shop. I have arranged dinner 
at seven; Watters will be there to talk over the details of 
the series.” 


316 


Chapter XXIV 


W HEN Mark took his courage into both hands 
and returned to Charlcote it was late even- 
ing. As he crossed the Camp, the butt 
of cockchafers and soft blurring moths, he 
noticed with a great leap of his heart that there was no 
light in the upper window of Mrs. Winscombe’s cottage. 
As he neared Ainger’s open door he heard the voices of 
men, the senile warble of Ainger and the level chanting 
of Major Vassall. He shut his eyes upon the face nerv- 
ousness called up and entered boldly. It would be going 
too far to say that Major Vassall looked pleased to see 
him. He rose at once and held out his hand, smiling 
courteously, though perhaps his eyebrows went up a little. 
Ainger slapped his thigh. 

“ Well, well, Mr. Surtees ; this is what I call right,” he 
said. “We were talking about you not half an hour ago. 
I was just saying that I wondered if you were drinking 
such good ale as we have enjoyed this beautiful evening. 
Sit you down and join us, for you will never have better 
company ; of that Fm quite sure.” He was for getting up, 
but Mark stayed him, and, reaching a mug from the dresser, 
poured himself out some beer. Before drinking he looked 
at the major. 

“ Miss Dampier,” said he, drily, “ is all but completely 
recovered. Her wonderful vitality and Adrs. Winscombe s 
excellent nursing have pulled her through a very serious 
illness.” 

Mark drank off his ale at a draught. 

317 


Love with Honour 


“ Come,” said Ainger, with a chuckle, “ that’s better. 
I never feel sure of a man’s peace of mind or soundness 
of body until I have seen him down his liquor. There’s 
character in it, as you may know. I would not give a nail- 
paring for sippers or gurglers in the cup, nor those that 
fling it down. I like to see a slow, steady draught, with 
just enough of wambling on the palate ; the swallow of a 
man, not a bird or a beast, with a thanks be to God at the 
end of it. Now sit you down and tell us what you have 
seen ; for though I am not one for strange beds, it gives a 
relish to one’s victuals to hear all the news of the world 
and the ways of other people.” 

Major Vassall’s nightly visit to Ainger on his way home 
from Mrs. Winscombe’s cottage was a little trying to both 
men. The guest did not feel it becoming to object to his 
host’s tobacco, while Ainger felt bound to observe the 
other’s prejudice against the third glass of ale. The con- 
versation of the three was flagging and ostentatiously of the 
road, until the major, taking out his watch, said he must be 
going home. Mark walked with him to the end of the 
lane. 

“ I shall be obliged, Mr. Surtees,” said the major, at 
parting, “ if you will come to my house to-morrow morn- 
ing. May I ask that you will not endeavour to see Miss 
Dampier in the interval ? ” 

Mark assented. 

‘‘ I hope you’re not vexed that I came here ? ” he said 
bluntly. The major coughed. 

“ I am compelled to believe that it was the most natural 
thing in the world for you to do,” he said. “ If it is pleas- 
ant for you to hear it, I may say that your coming was 
318 


Love with Honour 


expected — and hoped for. You will understand me when 
I say that I have no right to intrude where your own good 
sense can be the only guide.” 

As Mark, tearing his eyes from the golden square of 
Mrs. Winscombe’s kitchen window, turned back into the 
cottage, Ainger bubbled over with a paunchy chuckle. He 
raised his glass, rubbing his smooth chin gently, as he 
always did when pleased. 

‘‘ You must excuse an old man getting on his feet, Mr. 
Surtees, but there is no less good will in the toast, I do 
assure you. A fine, ripe young woman, sir. She is 
springy for all her softness, plim as a green gage, and not a 
bit less kissable for coming of a gentle family. Not like 
the Arkells, who have to keep their places like a piece of 
bad cabinet work — held by the glue. If you tap hard 
there is a jar in the wood ; it does not sit in its place like 
the Catechism, N. or M.” 

He poured himself out another glass of ale, and, sitting 
back, folded his arms with a sigh of relief. 

“ The major,” he said, is a very fine gentleman,” and 
Mark knew that he used the word fine in its better mean- 
ing, “ but he tries me. I am never at ease in his company ; 
one is too far from the fire and the curtains are not drawn. 
Besides, he looks askance upon the good gifts of God ; I do 
not like a man to serve his belly, but when the earth is 
spread with a many good things to see, to taste, to touch, 
and to smell, ’tis a discourtesy to turn the eyes away. 
Time enough for that when the power of enjoyment is 
gone ; and I do pray most heartily that I may be taken as 
was that poor lady with the smell of the earth in my 
nostrils, and the savour of the air between my lips.” 

319 


Love with Honour 


Mark was in a mood when Ainger’s gossip seemed gross. 
He wanted him to talk — just the news — he told himself, 
without comment. 

“Were there many people at the funeral?” he asked. 

“ I have never seen so poor a burying in all my life,” 
said Ainger, emphatically. “ There was Major Vassall, as 
might be supposed, and Mrs. Arkell and her son to make a 
decent show of grief ; for love between them, there was 
none. Elizabeth was there, for the good of her soul, and 
to make amends for whatever hard thoughts she had against 
the poor lady. There was also the jerky lawyer man, who 
represented the pomp of the Dampiers. It rained all the 
time. I went to look on; I counted seven women crying, and 
beat off’ the boys with my stick from climbing on the church- 
yard wall. I do not like funerals, they make me gloomy ; 
but Elizabeth would have it that I went out of respect. 
I wore the black silk hat I had when I went to London.” 

“ I saw no lights at Charlcote House as I passed,” said 
Mark, half to himself. 

“ No, no,” said Ainger ; “ Esther is gone home, and the 
place is empty. There will be no more Dampiers at Charl- 
cote, for Miss Laura is to go away to Southsea, as soon as 
she is well enough, to stay with Miss Vassall, a sister of the 
major’s. I hope she is not a grenadier like her brother, to 
starve all the sap out of the girl’s life. Take an old man’s 
advice, Mr. Surtees, marry her, while you are sure of her 
love, and can take joy of each other. It makes me angry 
to see a cold bridal. I could have clapped my hands when 
Elizabeth told me that Miss Laura was not for Mr. Cuth- 
bert. Not but what he is a well-mannered young gentle- 
man and a scholar; but scholarship will not teach a man 
320 


Love tvith Honour 


how a woman should be loved, nor shall he learn her 
whimsies out of books. You have that by the gift of God, 
like an eye for colour, or a fine palate ; and she is willing, 
never fear. Elizabeth says that the major will do his best 
to win her away ; not but what he would act honourably, 
but he has notions about family trees and traditions, as you 
know.” 

Major Vassall’s reception of Mark in the morning was 
not encouraging. 

“You will understand me, Mr. Surtees,” said the old 
man, “ when I say that I prefer to avoid the discussion of 
matters of sentiment. I do not pretend to be an expert in 
affairs of the heart, but I believe I am right in saying that 
you hold the affections of my ward. However, that is not 
our object this morning ; I wish to speak to you, as one 
man of the world to another.” 

He waited for a moment, fidgeting with his papers. 
Mark wished to start with a clear understanding. 

“ I hope,” he said nervously, “ that I need not tell you 
that I have had no communication with Miss Dampier 
since I left here in the autumn.” 

The major bowed. 

“You are a man of honour, Mr. Surtees, and if it is any 
satisfaction to you to hear it, I will say that I am devoutly 
thankful that Miss Dampier found her way to you.” 

“Thank you for that,” said Mark, with tears in his 
eyes. The major cleared his throat. 

“ Do you know the circumstances of Mrs. Dampier’s 
death ? ” he asked. 

“ I understood that she died of a broken blood-vessel, the 
result of a shock — a sudden visit from her family solicitor.” 
y 321 


Love with Honour 


“ Exactly,” said the major; “ and do you happen to know 
the reason for his visit ? ” 

“ I neither know nor wish to know.” 

“ It is quite necessary that you should know ; indeed, 
that is the chief reason for my wishing to see you. The 
information, for which Mrs. Dampier was so unprepared, 
was to the effect that Miss Dampier inherits considerable 
property of the late Lord Belsire.” 

“ Fm very sorry to hear that.” 

‘‘ No doubt ; but you will recognise that this places me 
in a singularly difficult position ; I mean, as regards yourself.” 

Mark needed no further explanation. 

“ Does Miss Dampier know this ? ” he faltered. 

“ She does ; I may add that it makes no difference in 
her regard for you. But that is beside the point j under 
these circumstances any question of marriage becomes a 
serious matter ; it involves the disposal, of a very extensive 
property.” 

“ Miss Dampier is nearly of age,” said Mark, bluntly. 

‘‘You disappoint me,” said the major. “Surely you 
see that, although legally her own mistress, no woman under 
fifty can be considered competent to decide a question so 
large as this. I need only hint to you what the world will 
say.” 

“ Why need it be known ? ” said Mark, quickly. 

“ I don’t understand you.” 

“ You say that only yourself. Miss Dampier, Mr. Pern- 
bridge, and now myself know of this wretched reversion.” 

“ Precisely ; but general ignorance of a circumstance 
does not disprove its existence. Miss Dampier is, thank 
God, alive and well ; the property is hers, and the man she 
322 


Love with Honour 

marries will share it with her. As a matter of fact, two 
other people do know the circumstances, Mrs. Arkell and 
her son. That compels me to ask you a question, of which 
I am ashamed ; indeed, I should not think of asking it, but 
that it is advisable that I should be able to quote your 
answer. Had you any suspicion of the relation of Miss 
Dampier to the late Lord Belsire, and of the possibility of 
her inheritance ? ” 

None whatever,” said Mark, with a laugh. 

“ So I supposed,” said Major Vassall, gravely. “ I 
repeat that, even without your denial, I should have ac- 
quitted you of fortune hunting j only, as you cannot fail to 
see, the charge is sure to be made.” 

“ I can bear that.” 

“ I should think but poorly of you, if you could not ; 
still, the situation is intolerable. I dismiss the point 
that it is a reflection on my guardianship, but it exposes 
Miss Dampier to discussion, pardon me, to pity. That 
must not be.” 

Now that Major Vassall had cleared his way out of the 
past, he was fallen under the spell of Laura’s new prospects. 
In his rebound from the terror of scandal he overlooked 
obvious truths; abstract justice became relative to a per- 
sonal trust. A position for his ward so founded, so true to 
his sense of race, appealed to him with considerable force : 
he was unworldly, but subject to feudal instincts. Mark 
faced the truth unflinchingly. 

“ Miss Dampier can renounce her claim,” he said 
steadily. Major Vassall stared. 

“ What an extraordinary proposal ! ” he said. “ Shotworth 
is one of the finest estates in the county ; the house is his- 

323 


Love with Honour 


toric ; the picture gallery is known all over Europe — the 
income from rents is £Sooo a year.” 

Mark rose from his chair and walked agitatedly up and 
down the room. 

“ You do me an injustice,” he said, “ in keeping me out 
of your confidence. I may be under a hideous misappre- 
hension, but I must ask you plainly — you force me to it — 
who was Miss Dampier’s father ? ” 

For the first time in his life Major Vassall failed to meet 
another man’s eyes ; yet he could not lie. 

“ In law she is the daughter of Captain Dampier ; there 
is no shadow of legal doubt. I pray you will spare me fur- 
ther explanation.” 

“ Do you think it is a pleasure to me ? ” said Mark, 
bitterly. ‘‘ But don’t you see that if — that Miss Dampier 
has no shadow of claim to this estate ? ” 

“ Her paternity was never disputed ; legally she is Captain 
Dampier’s child,” said Major Vassall, doggedly. Mark 
moved impatiently. 

“ And you would allow her, knowing what you know, to 
occupy a false position ? I would rather see her begging 
her bread.” 

“ How did you learn this ? ” asked Major Vassall, in a 
low voice. Mark told him how the knowledge had been 
forced upon him ; when he spoke of Mrs. Winscombe’s 
conversation with her brother, Major Vassall interrupted 
him. 

“ She has told me all she knows,” he said j “ it is safe 
with her.” 

They were silent for a little while. Major Vassall was 
engaged in the most bitter struggle of his life. All his 

324 


Love with Honour 

prejudices were up and armed against an instinct that told 
him Mark was right. 

“ It would cause a scandal,” he murmured weakly, as 
one thinking loud. 

“ There need be no scandal,” cried Mark, eagerly. “ It 
is perfectly easy for Miss Dampier to let Shotworth lapse 
to the Crown ; she can make a gift of it to the nation.” 

“ She has never seen Shotworth ; I have,” said Major 
Vassall, meaningly. 

‘‘ Will you give me permission to speak to Miss Dam- 
pier ? ” begged Mark. 

‘‘Yes,” said the major, after a pause, “but she must see 
Shotworth before she decides.” 


325 


Chapter XXV 


T here are houses that coerce attention, making 
up for importance with arrogance, and there 
are houses that evade the eye and so achieve a 
distinction which lessens with familiarity ; but 
Shotworth holds its ground frankly, neither advancing nor 
receding. The man who built Shotworth was biassed 
neither by the wish to please nor to impress. The mass of 
building, sturdily set like a square of infantry in the old 
formation for receiving cavalry, ascends from the four 
quarters to a central hexagonal tower. The sparing deco- 
ration is logical rather than ornate, an imaginative treatment 
of structural details. Emphatically a place to live in, it 
suggests tradition rather than legend ; and while innocent 
of romance is yet reminiscent of serious history. The 
approach from the principal lodge is in a wide curving drive, 
as if the designer were disdainful of those tricks by which 
anticipation is heightened. You do not catch a glimpse of 
Shotworth only to lose it again in a turn of the road ; from 
the first vision, the place dawns on you formally, gradu- 
ally, like a courtly introduction. In full view of the south 
front Major Vassall stopped, and took off his hat. 

“ This,” he said, “ is Shotworth.” 

During their drive thither he had fired the imagination of 
Laura and Mark with steel-bright stories of Dampier men, 
and gracious memories of Dampier women ; he was not 
without a shamefaced hope that Laura might yet succumb 
to the spacious levels of Shotworth. Mark was prepared 
to be indifferent, having gained more than acres or towers ; 

326 


Love with Honour 

but when the long dark firwood loomed up on their left, he 
understood why Major Vassall sat more erect and Laura 
became silent. For a mile they were under the brow and 
the spell of it, until the turnpike was passed, and, ascending 
the hill, the Shotworth Arms held in their faces the same hand 
that Laura bore on her note-paper. Mark half regretted that 
he had come ; he felt an outsider. Once, as they passed a 
lodge, and he stared moodily at the sculptured crest, Laura 
edged a little nearer, and touched his hand. The contact was 
a sort of knighthood, establishing him at once as her equal. 

As they stood in front of the house Laura did not speak, 
but breathed a little quicker ; and Mark observed how ad- 
mirably she was one with the pile of building. 

“ Nobody without a title could live here,” she said at 
length. 

‘‘That is entirely a feminine fancy,” said Major Vassall, 
“ to attach importance to a merely decorative addition ; a 
noble family is always noble ; it is the name that matters.” 

Laura laid her hand on his arm. 

“ Do you particularly wish to see inside the house ? ” she 
asked. 

“ Why not ? ” 

She hesitated. “ Don’t you think it is a pity to destroy this 
impression ? ” she said ; “ after all, rooms are but rooms ; it 
is only a matter of size. I don’t like to think of drawing- 
rooms and kitchens in a palace.” 

“ We really ought to see the pictures,” said Major 
Vassall ; “ besides, I have sent for Mr. Thynne, the steward, 
to conduct us through the place.” He had a sudden 
thought that Laura was afraid for herself. 

Mark felt that they ought to be alone. 

327 


Love with Honour 


“ I’ll wait down there by the lake,” he said, “ it looks 
very jolly. I’ll sit there,” “ and smoke,” he was about 
to add, but the idea seemed sacrilege. Major Vassall raised 
his eyebrows. 

“ I am not an authority on art matters,” he said coldly, 
“ but I understand that the Shotworth collection is one of 
the finest in the country. There are not only the portraits 
and works by the great painters of antiquity ; but the late 
Lord Belsire was a man of singularly fine taste and a patron 
of contemporary artists. Seldom a year passed but he 
purchased a picture from the Academy.” 

That a person should be indifferent to anything belonging 
to Shotworth seemed to him a want of respect ; also, he 
was anxious that Mark should not evade the full impression 
of the place. 

“ I should really prefer to remain outside,” stammered 
Mark. Laura looked sympathetically at him behind the 
major’s back. 

“ Oh, here is Mr. Thynne,” she said, to gain time. 

An elderly, bearded man was seen approaching, followed 
by the lodge-keeper carrying his basket and rod. Mr. 
Thynne raised his hat with an impressive bow. He 
looked at Laura with guarded admiration. Mark ’s spirit 
fell ; if an old man looked at her like that, how should he 
fare against young blood, with all the advantages of rank ? 

“ Mr. Pembridge communicated to me the result of 
his inquiries ; Miss Dampier will forgive me when I say 
that he was singularly fortunate.” 

It was an anti-climax when Major Vassall, turning to 
Mark, introduced him. But Mr. Thynne was equal to 
the occasion. 


328 


Love with Honour 


“ By your face, sir, you should be related to the 
Reverend Henry Surtees, a dear friend to the late Lord 
Belsire ? ” 

‘‘ He was my father,” said Mark. Major Vassall was 
positively grateful. 

“ Surtees,” he said, “ wishes to explore the grounds ; 
he is a connoisseur of landscape — an artist. Since our 
time is limited, perhaps — ” 

With your permission,” said Mark, desperately, “ I 
should like, at some time, to spend a whole day with the 
pictures. I dislike the idea of hurrying over so fine a 
collection.” 

Mr. Thynne bridled with pleasure. “ Any time you 
wish, Mr. Surtees, I shall be honoured to give you my 
services as cicerone.” 

Mark escaped, leaving the others to go up to the 
house, and made his way down the slope to the lake. 
At the nearer end was a large stone boathouse, re- 
sembling a mortuary chapel, standing on a bridge under 
which the water escaped through a lock into the woods. 
Mark sat on the wall and gazed moodily at the fish. 
Even they swam with a certain aristocratic slowness : 
they seemed to appreciate the honour of being sport for 
lords, rising to the surface with deliberation, less as a 
pleasure, than as a duty, to keep themselves in condition. 

Mark would not allow himself to think of the solemn 
mockery of the business. It was intolerable that Laura 
should be told the truth ; and if she, falling under the 
spell of Shotworth, desired to live there, he was prepared 
to renounce her. He did not doubt her loyalty to him, 
but he saw clearly that she might require him to share 

329 


Love with Honour 


her place, trusting to her love to overcome those scruples 
which, so far as she could be allowed to know, were 
based upon nothing deeper than a preference for a simpler 
way of living. He refused to compromise with his 
conscience ; legal, or not legal, he could not tolerate a 
false position for the woman he loved. He would not 
be angry with her if she made the choice fatal to his 
happiness j she was entitled to dismiss as unreasonable 
the demands of a man who required her to sacrifice so 
much. Nor could he blame Major Vassall, except upon 
grounds of almost fantastic honesty, for using his in- 
fluence against him. In many ways it would be right 
and proper that Laura took her place, unquestioned and 
unquestioning, as mistress of Shotworth. The risk of 
scandal was less than if she refused; the motive for 
passing over the place would appear so slight in the eyes 
of the world, that people would wonder, and when people 
wonder, there is always some one ready to come forward 
and say, “I know the reason.” To Mark, who knew 
the truth, that reason seemed shrieking to be known. 
He felt abominably depressed and selfish; Major Vassall 
was right, he was merely selfish under pretence of a fine 
standard of honour. There was presumption, too, in 
setting up his judgment against that of a man who, 
whatever his faults, was the essence of honour. In his 
present mood he conceded a respect, to him ordinarily 
impossible, for the smooth compromises of middle-aged 
people. Abstract justice was so hard a thing to de- 
termine, that it seemed priggish to oppose a solution 
conformable to the decencies and entirely advantageous 
to the woman he loved. It seemed inevitable that Laura 

.^30 


Love loith Honour 


must choose Shotworth ; he did not waste time in con- 
sidering whether he might be induced to share the place 
with her. A sense of humour made this idea unthink- 
able; though he found a grim amusement in picturing 
himself giving orders to Mr. Thynne. He startled the 
fishes by breaking into a loud laugh, and, shaking off his 
depression, set out to walk round the lake. 

Major Vassall and Mr. Thynne found a rare pleasure in 
watching Laura’s progress through the house. It is difficult 
to say how far Mr. Pembridge had taken the steward into 
his confidence; but it was evident that Mr. Thynne looked 
upon Laura as the probable mistress of Shotworth. The 
two well-bred men of the world avoided explanation 
without embarrassment; and had not Laura herself been 
interested in her surroundings, she would have noticed a 
pretty little duel between them. It was impossible for Mr. 
Thynne entirely to conceal the disappointment he, as the 
retainer of a noble family, felt in the idea of the estate 
passing into the hands of a woman. The lapse of the title 
was but a small matter; it was the lordship of sex he re- 
gretted. On the other hand. Major Vassall by glance and 
manner claimed for Laura a special fitness. 

“ She is more than a Dampier,” he seemed to say. He 
was triumphantly pleased by the self-possession of the girl 
herself. Standing in the banqueting room, she looked 
thoughtfully round, and said : - — 

“ How curiously the place has the atmosphere of middle- 
aged people. It would be very difficult to take up the 
thread again, to make the exact alteration that one must 
have, without implying some sort of criticism of the people 
who lived here before. At a distance of time one doesn’t 


331 


Love with Honour 


notice it ; the manners of the sixteenth century slide into 
those of the seventeenth quite gracefully ; but it would 
require months of thinking before one dared touch anything 
here. It isn’t by any means perfect ; the window hangings 
are simply barbarous.” 

“ My dear young lady,” said Mr. Thynne, smiling appre- 
ciatively, “ you have wonderful instinct. I remember Lord 
Belsire — though he was a middle-aged person — making 
an exactly similar remark. He was, as you know, a very 
busy man, an outdoor man, and found very little time to 
consider questions of decoration. Yet periodically, in quiet 
seasons, he called me to his room, and said, ‘ Thynne, we 
must really do something to the Long Room ; remind me 
to send for Saunders ’ — Saunders is our London man, you 
know. Unfortunately, whenever the opportunity seemed 
approaching, something happened to prevent it. It is five 
years since Saunders was here.” 

“ After all,” said Major Vassall, “ everything is in har- 
mony, the furniture and the decorations.” 

“ Pardon me,” said Mr. Thynne, energetically ; ‘‘ I think 
you mistake Miss Dampier’s meaning. If I understand 
you correctly,” he bowed to Laura, “ you agree with his 
lordship, that a house like this should be progressive. 
‘We must never allow Shotworth to become a show place,’ 
he would say, by which I took him to mean an anachro- 
nism. Vitality is the first essential, and vitality implies 
growth.” 

Major Vassall made a gesture of horror. 

“ But you would not tamper with the external structure ? ” 

“ By no means ; the change must be internal, the dis- 
carding of elFete styles and the adoption of others, equally 

332 


Love with Honour 


distinctive, but in keeping with the march of culture in the 
world outside. Want of leisure and a personal leaning 
toward pictorial rather than decorative art confined Lord 
Belsire’s actual labours to his gallery. Here, as you will 
see, he never allowed his collection to become a dead thing, 
a museum. Guided by his own taste and knowledge, with 
the aid of the best expert assistance, he kept it organic and 
progressive. He showed a courage equally admirable in 
discarding doubtful or spurious examples, as in the purchase 
of works that, though unratified by the popular verdict, 
were yet, to the eye of the connoisseur, worthy of their 
place. At the same time, the pictures are not merely rep- 
resentative ; they are emphatically the Shotworth collection. 
I can assure you it would have been a rare pleasure to Lord 
Belsire to have known Miss Dampier.” 

‘^Your father,” said Major Vassall, “had a very sound 
taste in artistic matters ; he constantly regretted my indif- 
ference to the subject.” 

“ But you were interested in finer things than pictures,” 
said Laura, loyally. Mr. Thynne laughed. 

“ Do you know that your branch of the family is known 
as the fighting Dampiers ? ” he asked. 

“ There will be no more fighting Dampiers,” said Major 
Vassall, sadly ; “ but I suppose you would say that is an 
organic development. We have outlived battles.” 

“ As a representative of the chief cause of battles , Miss 
Dampier should dispute that statement.” 

The remark, innocent of intention, sent a sudden thrill 
through Major Vassall. He had not before thought bitterly 
of Mrs. Dampier, but now a sense of her treachery, her 
frailty, was upon him like a curse. How she had wronged 
333 


Love with Honour 


this long line of proud men and chaste women ; and how 
was it possible to evade the logical outcome of her sin ? 
He began to realise that he was not on the side of the 
angels ; that he was retrospectively glossing over the dead 
woman’s fault. It was a sophism to argue that the sinner 
had paid in full; the innocent also must suffer. 

As they stood in the picture gallery, surrounded by the 
calm faces of Dampiers dead and gone, he knew that what 
he proposed was little short of a crime. How could Laura 
live among these ? Surely some instinct of blood would 
warn her. 

“They don’t seem friendly,” she said, in startling com- 
mentary upon his thoughts. “ I feel I want to ingratiate 
myself. Oh, it is a horrid feeling ! ” 

“ That is merely the novelty of your position,” said Mr. 
Thynne. “You must allow a little time for mutual inspec- 
tion.” 

“ But it is different from what I expected,” said Laura, 
with a puzzled air. “ They don’t own me.” 

Major Vassall was silent. He was furtively, against his 
will, seeking out some corroborative outline in the pictures 
that would brace him against conviction. Shame was so 
unknown to him that he had a fantastic dread Mr. Thynne 
would remark upon the want of family likeness in Laura’s 
features. On the contrary, the steward singled out a 
picture. 

“You have forgotten the time when you wore a ruff. 
Miss Dampier; look. Major Vassall, is it not striking ? ” 

Laura turned away, simply. 

“ I think I would rather leave the family pictures,” she 
said, “ and look at the landscapes. I prefer landscapes.” 

334 


Love with Honour 


There was a momentary glance between her and the 
major. He understood a delicate intention in her remark; 
he knew that she had chosen. Conversation flagged some- 
what ; there was a cessation of sympathy between the three. 

‘‘ Miss Dampier is tired,” said Mr. Thynne, his hand on 
the bell-rope. “ Permit me to send for Mrs. Raife, the 
housekeeper. A cup of tea, perhaps ? We can have it 
served in one of the morning rooms.” 

“ No, indeed, thank you,” begged Laura. 

“ Miss Dampier would prefer to dispense with anything 
like a formal recognition of her identity,” said Major Vas- 
sall, gravely. 

“ I think I would like to go out ; may I go alone ? ” said 
Laura, naively. 

“ Oh, by all means,” replied Mr. Thynne. I must 
really apologise for subjecting you to fatigue ; one forgets 
the size of the rooms.” He led the way down the wide 
staircase. 

‘‘ Would it be troubling you to show me the conifers ? ” 
suggested Major Vassall. 

“ With all the pleasure in the world, my dear sir. You 
are, I remember, an enthusiast. I think you will find the 
plantation worth your attention. Macfarlane is singularly 
successful ; he has, I believe, an example of every species 
that will grow in England.” 

“ I will go down to the lake and find Mr. Surtees,” said 
Laura, at the door. Mr. Thynne looked at her too gravely 
for curiosity ; it was an important question whether Miss 
Dampier came to Shotworth heart-whole or not. Major 
VassalPs bow was a recognition of the inevitable ; he was 
humbler, but less grieved than he had expected to be. 

335 


Love toith Honour 


‘‘We will join you in half an hour,” he said. 

Mark’s progress round the lake was an unwilling con- 
cession to the good sense of middle-aged people. He was 
prepared to despise the tidiness and order of a nobleman’s 
estate, but the scale, the dignity, justified it at every turn. 
One may scoff* at a pond in a suburban garden, but a lake 
three-quarters of a mile long, shadowed by forest trees, can- 
not be despised. By the time Mark had reached the farther 
extremity he could appreciate the sentiments of a land- 
owner. Looking back, he saw Shotworth stretched out in 
quiet grandeur above the noble sweep of lawns sloping 
down to the water. The low sun picked out the details of 
the building in fine relief from lilac shadows, and tenderly 
revealed every curve and dimple of the smooth turf. The 
great charm of the place was precisely the suggestion of 
order and cultivation ; a ragged line of trees would have 
offended the eye. 

Laura would have a perfect setting, he sighed, worthy of 
her. Whatever her birth, she would be rightly placed by 
reason of her graciousness. He grew hot with shame 
when he realised that his request implied putting himself 
in the scale against all this. He no longer felt any self- 
pity, and, turning back, he tried to think of cheerful things, 
so that, when they met, it would be easier for Laura to tell 
him of her choice. 

A turn of the road brought them face to face. 

“ I am glad to have seen it all,” she said gravely ; “ take 
me a little farther away, where we cannot see the house.” 

“ Forgive me,” said Mark, humbly, “ I understand now ; 
I was foolish ever to think — ” 

“ It is all mine,” she answered, as if speaking to herself. 

336 


Love with Honour 


“ Laura,” he said, “ let us say good-bye here. I shall 
always be glad to remember that we have been here 
together. Our ways must be different from this day. I 
shan’t be unhappy, you know ; I have found an interest in 
life ; it is you who have helped me to it.” 

“ Why should our ways be different ? ” she murmured, 
looking away. 

“ Oh, don’t torture me, dear ; you know that is im- 
possible.” 

“ There is nothing impossible if you love me.” 

‘‘ I could not live here.” 

“ I do not want you to live here.” 

But it is all yours ? ” 

“ And yours, to-day ; because it is mine and I am yours, 
if you will have me. To-morrow, Shotworth won’t be 
yours, nor mine either ; but I — Don’t you understand, 
Mark, that I am waiting for you ? ” 


z 


337 






1 


; •:•,•*>■■'■ . -■ *, .' •^ '■ 

-• " . ' "‘tii. '■ ■' 

*■ ' 1 * ' '' *»:•" r " ^•'-• 

-**1 •- "^ - '. . . . • • ^ 


\r 


ii^ 




-f 

t . 


•> 4 

, I I 


r>;".VV 




»' • 






*i 


• ^ 




a:> ' ' 

. ' r* 




'• * 


- • n 




I 


« 

V 


V-*- 


*3 , 




*>> 'V - 




. V .*, 


i* 


', <1 


A f..-* , 

^..''' ’ V'* -* 


* 

* • 


*^1 • 




• , < 

* » * 


✓ • 


t 


** 


' -i»' 




T**- 

*• I > 


*a. 




>- 


::t 


I 

•v ■ 


\ 




» 


C' 


■A 


n 


>■ 

rv 


^ ♦ 

% 

>' 


» • I » J^ 

\* - *■ ‘ •, 

* • .’ ' '^ . L. . ^ ■ « • 


V 

< 


• s 


» r 








-j'. 

V 


• v 

I 


f I 


/ 

I 


t > 


• f 


. ^ 


'r 




. 


' - • •• '* • • • 

••A ^ . 4 


^ ' 


’« _ 


» • 

\ 


^ I 


•Vi 


, • * [‘ 3 ^ 

% 


^ 


•, f 


4 : 


f 

.iL 


N 


'm 

. V V p 

l"ii 


:> 

t 

U' 


I 






*>» 


4 »• 


% ^ 




^ • 


tjf 




VI 








,v m - 

^ ^ /I. s 


*• 



wVa 








r* 


1 






t 




I * 


, •* » 




.« 

. ^ 


t '••' 




-• y : 


i •, 


" jy ' 

• . ' r *[> -r 




‘ i 

I . ■ r 








• *•**'<' • •'^f4'’ 

f 'i,' ' , 


f ■■ 






^v -n 

^■V. ^ 


r- 


k . 


- * « 









X' 




■ h < * :. '■ o 

V^^lVs.- -* “ • K'^' X * ' ‘ ' * *■' ff ' " 


r • -I * 



«• » 


I .T»’ 


> . 



• f* ‘ 
•V * T** 


. »* 

— ,** * 


S * 


V 


v: 


?> / 


> - ‘ i - ‘<^-*-^Hr i** • y 

- ■ • ■ . k -■ . i5^ , '^ • 

' . ' ,-'-</V. ■ ■ .- . V. ■ . . 




. •> 

-»> 


/ 


. A. » 
‘ * 


. V 

' 1 > • *: 


> • 


i-v^' ^ 


• 


- 


US vC 






:* -i 'u./ ’v 

/ \ •‘•V* 

'■ '\.^ y ~ r ‘ ■ - . ^ > . (;& .•■ 

- ■ ' - r u V ■ - 

' ' 




'• '-* * s 


• ‘ 




’-••y 

• V • _ ■ '- ^ 


Il 


•:;>**» M ^ 

"V t 


<* 


-)» 


r^ ' ' ' ■ * '*:'. f , 


T . 

\-*^ ‘V 


. ^ 

« 


j,*. 






i > 


HSsftSi .i' ' '' - 1 " -• 

. •/. ' . 

• - • -1-' U'Vvt;:>jt 

, •/ - * '^ . i k ^ . . 

\* • ^ . SI. *■• 


uv 


^ J , 


. t 


■ • y- 

V ' 


4 . 


/ ^ ■** * I '• 


• •?. V • 

. "V 


17 . 




• 

i. I 


, ^ >> .* 4 , ‘ * • • ^ >■ ‘ ' ^ .. 

• ^ ♦ *^ ♦ ..S A .A 

- ^ iS • . ^ ^ ^ s V 





• \ 


’w^rfr" 


ft . 




4 



cv.- . ■ :Vv'';™fsa 

r- - I ■ t ^iJTt^sL^ “ 

■•■' '■ r-^* 



rf* 

''^C' 

• - /» A- _ * 


nc- j^'' ' ' ife- 

' •- ,• 

'..* •-* / • . <tn ■ 
ji \* • tJ ft- . * ^ 

^ - -^ V • 

j , # • 



* 


1 

' ’ - '. 

• . 

• « » 
X*.V' - 


■ 

0 

V 

» 



H' 

f s 

« 

. » ^' 

•- ' y 


- • ^ 



jft 
X' 

■'■ " . I’if ^ 

- ' f- 


2 '>>-'. r . 

* -A ^ 


.< 


A* . 


• 4 

• t 


> 

•■ • 


Vr' 1 

►*'** . 

, 


» • 


^ iM‘ ■•j 


> * •' 



'lA ■'' /' 

Wi » fc ' V* 



'Kri 

• ■•■ 1 . 



A-/. 


r;) 



' ..J ;',y'' 




• . 



1 - 






* 

c, ?' 

TA * 


O 


A ' 

'■», 




^ ' 


f 




\ 





<>l 


, ) ■ 




• «. 


: > 


4 


r 



< 

4 





V 



•• s * 

“•- . f 


I 

4 


r 

« 


. •< 

^ ) 




f 


f 


4 

4 

4 


# 











